


Soulflight

by Annwyn



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Complete, Elizabethan, M/M, Part AU, part old-school LotRIPs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annwyn/pseuds/Annwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is a silver river, swiftly flowing, and a thousand years are but a dream to a wandering soul...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The akashic records (akasha is a Sanskrit word meaning 'primary substance') is a term used in theosophy to describe a compendium of mystical knowledge encoded in a non-physical plane of existence.  
> Complete. Winner: Readers' Choice: Best Suspense Story, First RPS Starless Night Awards 2003

The great golden doors open slowly, their higher reaches lost in the formless mist. Beyond them, the Hall of Akashic Records stretches out into infinity, bathed in a sourceless white light. The Hall has been known by many names, through many lifetimes. It has been called Nature's Memory, the Cosmic Mind, the Collective Unconscious. It is a compendium of all the souls that ever lived, a record of their lives and deeds. Each soul is born, and lives, and dies anew -- and with each birth the sum of all the incarnations gone before infuses the soul with new potential, new promise.

The Hall of Akashic Records transcends time and space. It is without boundaries, outside religion and human experience.

It is not real.

It just is.

Alabaster plinths rise above the swirling mist in serried ranks, marching through archways carved of moonlight. On each plinth lies a Book. Each Book represents a soul, presently incarnate, wrapped in a thin, silvery glow. They all look alike to the casual glance, but here and there among the ranks, subtle colour plays through the glow in hues of gold, and red and green.

In this place and time, seven souls concern us. Of these, one glows with the steady burn of gold - an old soul, veteran of uncounted past lives. Another gleams with the green of young leaves, psychic potential apparent to those with eyes to see. And one shines with a rare sapphire light, the youngest of the Seven, its pristine pages yet untouched by word or deed.

The pages turn. A new chapter begins...

 

~~~~~

 

__   
_The year 1569 in the reign of Elizabeth I, by the grace of God, Queen of England..._   


 

The pouring rain turned the streets and lanes of London into foul rivers of mud. People dived for cover under convenient eaves, huddled in doorways or filled churches with unlooked-for congregations. The vast, accumulated filth of the capital became a swamp, threatening to suck down anyone foolish enough to venture out on it.

Sean Hastings wrapped his cloak closer and quickened his stride, the sodden feather of his cap flicking droplets into his eyes at every step. He did not want to be late for this meeting---not after John's heavy hints about a surprise in store for all of them. His heart beat faster in anticipation, for the Company, his surrogate family, had finally found a new patron. 'Lord Osborne's Men' - the name rolled easily off the tongue - was in business again.

The tavern loomed out of the murky night, its battered sign swaying wildly in the wind. The Queen's Arms' was good, as taverns go; the ale was unwatered, the food was filling, if uninspired, and the innkeeper was a friend. Sean pushed through the door, shoved from behind by a gust of wind and rain. The flickering firelight threw a lurid glow over the faces turned to him and a chorus of welcome rose from the crowd. He returned the greeting with a smile as he made his way to the back of the room.

"Sean! Well met!" John McAllen, book holder and manager of the troupe, rose from his bench to clap him on the shoulder. The merry blue eyes smiled into his and the lanky body quivered with suppressed excitement. "Ho, innkeeper," he called over his shoulder. "A flagon of your ale for my friend, if you please."

Sean seated himself at the table and looked inquiringly at his fellow players. Dominick Merriman, his sandy eyebrows raised, shrugged in response. "T'would do you no good to ask. I already have. He's as close as an oyster with this news." The grey eyes twinkled merrily. "Let him have his way. We will find out soon enough."

"Aye, John's as full as a tick in springtime." William Scot, his brown hair on end and his doublet askew, chimed in laughingly. "If I poke him, will he burst?"

"Enough!" the book holder hissed in annoyance. "I will ease your curiosity if you will but cease to plague me!"

"Wait." Sean dug a penny from his purse and exchanged it for a tankard of ale. "My thanks, Jeremy." The inkeep nodded and returned to the bar. "Go on, John."

"Our patron, Lord Osborne, is a generous man with a true love of our art." The book holder paused for a sip of ale. "We perform in the courtyard of this very tavern - even now, he sends for wood and canvas to build us a stout stage and space enough for an audience of fifty. Martyn is working on a play to start the season with, something light and easy to digest."

With one accord, their eyes shifted to the near corner of the room.

"In truth, he be working hard indeed!" Will smirked, but without malice.

Martyn Sonne and Owen Archer, the last two members of the company, shared a table in that shadowed space. Paper and inkpot littered the tabletop, but Thalia, muse of comedy, had flown, and Erato of love poetry had taken her place. Martyn's hand was hidden from view, but there was no mistaking, from Owen's swollen lips and lidded eyes, what that hand was about. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.

Sean looked away and sighed. He envied the love that the two shared. He knew that his soft brown eyes and well set-up body drew women to him like iron to a lodestone; he had sampled their charms often in his five-and-twenty years, but his heart had been touched by none of them.

He stirred restlessly on the hard bench. A feeling had been growing in his mind all day, a niggling itch, a vague foreshadowing. He did not know what to make of it - what his Irish granny had called 'the sight' came and went without due warning. Sean shook his head dismissively and bent his attention on John.

"- And here's a problem," John continued. "So much has Owen grown in the last year that he can no longer take all the female parts. We need another apprentice, for Martyn means to write meatier plays and..." He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes on the far door, and leapt to his feet, raising a hand.

The rain had abated not a whit, and the gust that blew through the room set the firelight dancing. The hooded figure in the doorway paused uncertainly before espying John's beckoning arm and making his way toward them.

"And - I have found one." John drew the newcomer forward. "Lads, give good evening to Edward Woodrose. Ned's father is one of Lord Osborne's tenants and our patron has commended him to me. He has no love for the soil and has been with strolling players some two years, so that he is not come new to the craft. Ned's all of eighteen and will be living with Mistress Kate my sister, and myself 'til he can fend for himself. What sayest thou?"

The young man cast his hood back and stood there, smiling shyly. In the ensuing silence, someone gasped. He was of middling height, slender of form, and clad in a simple brown jerkin and scarlet hose. Short black hair framed a beardless face, strands curling damply on ivory skin, and thick lashes shaded eyes that reflected the golden lamplight in pools of celestial blue. As he looked from one to another of the company, the tip of a pink tongue darted out to dampen the full red lips nervously. In short, Edward Woodrose was beautiful - with a purity of line that an artist might envy.

Will Scot broke the silence with a cackle of glee. "God's blood!" the irrepressible fellow laughed, leaping up to throw his arm around the lad's shoulders. "John! You have outdone yourself once more. Thou hast reached up to heaven to draw a dark angel into our midst! Come, Master Woodrose - meet the members of the Company - for family we will be to you from this day after."

In the bustle that followed, no one noticed Sean's unusual silence. As he had met Edward's eyes, the tickle of awareness at the back of his mind had flowered forth in a psychic shout of recognition. Visions tumbled through his mind, images both carnal and erotic, and he saw Edward's face wreathed in tongues of scarlet flame.

The room felt hot and close, and beads of sweat gathered upon his brow. He stared at Edward, his mouth dry.

"I have gone mad," he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Two months of furious preparation and rehearsal had passed, and they were ready to perform. The new apprentice, Edward Woodrose, proved to have a singular talent for the stage. His sweet nature and eagerness to please endeared him to his fellows - even Owen, who could have allowed envy to consume him, took Ned to his heart.

Sean endured - the spark that had bloomed at their meeting had come to full flower - a powerful attraction that would not be denied; though try to deny it he would. _He is so young..._ his conscience whispered. _I am not a lover of men!_ The Fates laughed in his face. His role in the play did not help matters...

~~~~~

  
He looked around the crowded backstage. John McAllen, promptbook in hand, ran through the cues for the last time. Edward and Owen were in the tiring-room under the care of Mistress Kate. Everyone else was ready. It was time. John stepped out onto the stage and bowed to their patron, who watched from the balcony.

"Hearken, good people, to a tale," he began. "'Tis a tale of love and betrayal, and a moral, which is for you to judge.

"The tale of 'The Wayward Daughter'."

_Will Scot strolls onto the boards, resplendent in slashed doublet and parti-coloured hose. He plays the part of a traveling merchant, one Harry by name, and introduces himself to the audience as 'a merry gentleman, a knave who dealt in trinkets fair'. He tells them that he seeks 'the rustic denizens of dale and glen'; suddenly a lamb's bleat is heard, and Susanna makes her entrance from the far end of the stage._

None had seen Ned since he and Owen had retired to be costumed and painted, and a muffled gasp rose from the cast and gallery as he came into view. The beautiful youth made a lovely maiden. The black wig framed his flawless face to perfection, stray curls laying on creamy shoulders and well-padded breast. Greasepaint enhanced the sapphire of his eyes and the generous curve of his rosy lips; he wore a tight-fitting bodice over a shift and several petticoats, and carried a shepherd's crook. Will gaped, instantly smitten, and the crowd sat still, rapt and expectant.

_Susanna holds her hands out to the audience in mournful appeal, and her voice bells out, sweet and musical:_

"Shall I grow old before my time,  
Worn down by toil, unremarkéd,  
When yonder the lights of London-Town,  
Shine bright on privilege, undeservéd?  
Daughter of the soil I am, and yet that state  
Of birth I did not choose, and wish away."

Through Acts I and II, Susanna is lured to London by the silver-tongued merchant with promises of marriage. There she discovers that the merchant has a family and desires her as a mistress, nothing more. After a dramatic encounter with Owen, playing the wronged wife, Susanna runs away, consumed by humiliation and guilt, and determines to end her ruined life.

Act III begins with Sean, walking the streets of London. He plays Lord Valentyne, third son of Viscount Montague, and at the moment bored and dissatisfied with his aimless life. He spies a maiden poised to leap into the Thames and stops her, imprisoning her body within the circle of his arms.

Sean had managed to avoid this scene during rehearsals, miming it instead; earning not a few odd looks from his mates, and one of hurt and puzzlement from Ned. He had dreaded this, dreaded and desired it with every fibre of his being. Not for the first time, he blessed the roomy codpiece he wore, for it hid his desire and shameful lust. His cock was already half-hard with anticipation, and with the slender body trembling against his, with Ned's scent in his nostrils, it came to full and aching attention.  The script called for them to look into each other's eyes, for love at first sight was a major theme of the play. Sean shut his eyes and took a steadying breath; then opened them to twin whirlpools of blue that sucked him down, and robbed him of coherent thought. He saw a startled awareness, the slightest widening of Ned's eyes, and wrenched his gaze away with an effort, forcing his willful body to the task at hand.

_Susanna struggles to break free, and Valentyne tightens his grip:_

"You run from him who can your pain remove,  
Your sins redeem, your honour save.  
And all the burdens of this woeful world  
Lift from your back. Deny me not..."

The last act opens on a scene set in a drawing room made lavish by cloth of gold and a rich carpet. Lord Valentyne and Susanna are arguing over the constancy of a nobleman's love. Susanna's father, played to pathetic perfection by John McAllen, enters off the stage; he has found his wayward daughter, and entreats her to come home. The scene is further complicated by the arrival of Dominick Merriman, playing Viscount Montague, who has learned that his youngest son is involved with a common farmer's daughter. The two older men confront each other, and the Viscount recognizes a long-lost cousin, disinherited for marrying below his station. Susanna's father is revealed as being far from a common farmer, and one who holds considerable land in his own right.

All is confusion and the audience settles, awaiting the foregone conclusion -- which Martyn's play does not give them. Instead, Susanna, who has since realized that a life of luxury has its pitfalls, turns to Valentyne, pleading:

_"Come live with me and be my love;  
Forsake this rootless life, and find  
Sweet heaven in my arms and on my lips  
Taste paradise enow..."_

Sean moves toward her in a daze, his eyes fixed on Susanna's beseeching face. It is a mercy that he has no more lines to deliver, for he could not have uttered another word to save his life. Will capers onto the stage again as the motley Fool, jangling in cap and bells. He serenades the lovers with bawdy verse, while the cousins reconcile, the entire Company takes its bows....

And the curtain falls.

~~~~~

  
The common room of the Queen's Arms rang with the sound of celebration. John sat at the table, gleefully counting the day's takings, while all about him, the rest of the company made merry. The play had been a rousing success - even Lord Osborne could find no fault in it.

Sean yawned widely, feeling the first rush of excitement drain from him. The heavy thrum of emotion had subsided, leaving him sodden with exhaustion. He looked up as the door opened and Owen came in, and tried to ignore the hot wash of disappointment that warmed his face.

"Are done so soon?" he asked, for the apprentices' task it was to clear the properties after each performance. "Where is Edward then?"

"Gone to the stables to store away the canvas." Owen replied with a knowing leer. "'Tis the last of his duties. He will be in directly."

Sean leaned back against the wall and tried to relax. The Welshman's words had started the infernal itch in his brain again, the aimless foreboding that grew in strength with each passing minute. He sat quietly, turning it over in his mind, then got to his feet and went out the stable yard door.

Ghostly tendrils of fog reached out to him as he stood in the doorway, listening. He swept the yard and outbuildings with his gaze, the feeling of unease a cold lump in his belly, and hurried across the cobbles to the dark bulk of the stable. Light and warmth flooded out as he pulled the door open, and he heard, above the restless movement of the horses, the dull sound of a fist striking flesh and a familiar voice rising in a scream cut short.

Sean was weaponless, but there was no hesitation in him. He rounded the stalls at a run and slammed to a halt at the sight before him, a red haze rising to overwhelm his senses. Ned lay writhing on the straw-covered floor, his glorious eyes glazed, his mouth a-gape as he fought for breath. Astride him, a man knelt, a lascivious smile on his piggish face, potbelly spilling out of his open doublet, his hose around his knees and his thick, meaty cock digging into the lad's body. The brute had one hand around Ned's neck, strangling him, and with the other tore at the laces of the lad's hose, laying him bare.

Sean threw himself at the intruder, his fists lashing out, and knocked him away from the gasping boy. His opponent was large, but fury lent Sean strength and the man, hobbled by his hose, was slow to move. The hot copper taste of bloodlust filled Sean's mouth as bone crunched beneath his fist, and he felt a fierce exultation rise, all-consuming, irresistible. Again and again he struck, his vision scarlet with his rage, until exhaustion wiped the madness away, and he saw the man senseless on the floor.

He crawled to Edward's side, trembling, his eyes drawn to the patch of silken skin and crisp curls laid bare by the torn hose. Bruises bloomed on Ned's face, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. At his touch, the lad let out a mewling cry, and tried to squirm away.

"Ned, love, 'tis I, Sean," he whispered. "Hush now, you're safe with me. The bastard's down and will trouble you no more."

"Sean..." Ned's hoarse voice broke and his body shook with the force of his sobs.

Sean's breath caught in pain and his resolve melted away in the face of the lad's torment. He drew his cloak over Ned's nakedness and then gathered him into his arms and rocked him gently, stroking his soft hair in wordless reassurance. They stayed thus until the harsh weeping had subsided and Ned began to shiver with reaction.

"Come," Sean murmured gently. "You will catch your death of cold. Let me bear you back to the inn."

When they heard what had befallen their friend, the company erupted in fury and outrage. Sean gave Edward over into the keeping of Mistress Kate and collapsed onto a bench, his knuckles bloody and his head fit to burst. He was deep in his second ale when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up blearily, into John's kindly eyes. "Did I kill him, then?" he mumbled dully. He found it difficult to care overmuch.

"No," John replied. "You broke his nose for him, and gave his head a few large knots, but he will mend in time. The lads have called the night watch. You are not to worry." He fell silent for a moment, then asked diffidently, "Sean - was Ned - did the bastard -"

Sean shook his head. "I arrived in the nick o' time, thank God." His jaw firmed and iron glinted in his eyes. "I wanted to kill him, John. I should have."

"Aye. Ned owes you his life this night. That brute's shaft would have split him in twain." John peered at him shrewdly. "Is there not something you should be telling the lad, Sean?"

Sean looked away, into the fire, and for a moment he saw Ned's face writhing in the flames. He shuddered and his face set stubbornly. "Nay - there is nothing. I know not what you mean."


	3. Chapter 3

Edward Woodrose was never now alone. Owen Archer and Will Scot were his constant shadows, and the entire Company rallied around the friend they had come to love. The plucky lad had insisted on performing, albeit beneath powder and paint thick enough to hide his livid bruises and swollen lip; and he was still pleasing to the eye - nothing could mar his curséd beauty. Day after weary day, he trod the boards, and if his voice shook a trifle or he stiffened in Sean's arms, no one in the audience had the wit to notice.

"How do you fare, Ned?" John McAllen dropped to the bench beside him, mopping at his sweating face. The troupe was rehearsing a new play, and the men were busy at repair and carpentry.

Edward essayed a painful smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Well enough, Master John." The book holder raised his brows in patent disbelief and waited silently. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Ned squirmed beside him, unable to meet John's eyes, until at last he turned his face to the wall and began to weep quietly.

"The truth, lad," the gentle voice hid a tone of command. John reached out and tilted the wet face towards him. The blue eyes shimmered crystal in the tavern's dim light. Blank, inward-looking and unnerving.

"Unclean...I am...unclean..."

The soft, distant voice sent icy fingers crawling up John's spine. He lunged forward with a gasp and enfolded the thin shoulders in a rough hug. "Nay, Ned! Never that! T'was not your fault - none of it! No one thinks that - no one..."

Ned wrenched free, his face hard and angry. "No one?" he exclaimed bitterly. "Why does _he_ not come a-nigh me then? He saved my paltry life - but mayhap he thinks that I fought not hard enough?" He wrapped his arms around his shivering body. "He was so strong, so large and he took me by surprise. I tried...but..."

John frowned, confounded by Ned's words. Who was this _he_ that the lad spoke of? _He saved..._; light dawned and he understood. He followed Ned's yearning gaze to the stable yard beyond the door; Sean Hastings sat on a bench in the watery English sun, mending a broken chair. He had shed his shirt and doublet, and the sunlight glinted on the golden hairs of his muscled arms and haloed his curly hair.

"Ye fought well, lad," John assured the despairing boy. "The night watch knows that bastard well. An you fought harder, ye would have been hurt unto death. And Sean - Sean could not have borne that. He loves you well, Ned." The book holder was the oldest of the Company. He had seen much in his four and forty years, and he had known from the first that Edward was another such as Martyn and Owen. Sean he had not known - had never guessed, though they had known each other long. He met the lad's wide eyes and nodded firmly. Mayhap he was what Sean had been waiting for.

~~~~~

He heard the knock again. Sean looked up from his book with a frown. Who would be calling on him at this hour? He crossed the tiny room, unlatched the door and saw a hooded figure standing in the dark hallway, shifting from one foot to another nervously. It spoke, and it bore Ned's voice.

"By your leave..." the voice was halting, hesitant.

Sean grasped him by the arm and hauled him unceremoniously into the room, looking warily up the dim hall before he shut the door. He turned on Ned and snarled, "God's teeth! What do you here? Fool! Hast thou learned nothing?" He took a deep breath, frowned and paused thoughtfully. "Did John bid you come alone - no - he would not. Is he without?"

Ned shrank back and his shoulders hunched defensively. "He brought me here and trusts to you to bring me back." he replied, and then burst out, "I thank you for all your care, but a child I am not! Know you this - I can fend for myself right well!"

In spite of himself, Sean felt a traitorous warmth invade his body, a tingling fire that rushed through his limbs and settled in his loins. Nay, Edward was no child; he was beautiful Ganymede with his cup of temptation, beloved of Zeus; he was Eros, and his arrows of love were aimed true. So true, but... Sean shook his mind free of fancy and bethought himself of his duties as host. He took Ned's cloak and gestured at the room's lone chair, whilst he settled on the bed.

Ned glanced around the room covertly. He had never visited Sean's lodgings before. The room was lit by a single tallow candle; its flickering light a small isle of gold by the shuttered window. It was painfully clean, and sweet smelling herbs were strewn among the rushes on the floor. He took a deep breath and delved into his jerkin, extracting a packet wrapped in oilskin. "I never thanked you for - for what you did that night," he said shyly. "T'would please me greatly if you would accept this paltry token of my gratitude."

Sean took the proffered gift reluctantly. He did not want Ned's thanks - he wanted - _no_. He would not think it, would not hope. He unwrapped the packet and found a small book, bound in worn leather and tooled in gold. He opened it, and stiffened imperceptibly. It was a book of poetry, printed on vellum - poems of love. He looked up quickly; Ned stood before him, his eyes cast down, the dusky lashes feathering his pale cheeks. "Ned," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I want not your obligation - but - I - I would know your mind."

Ned raised his eyes slowly. There was a hesitant hunger on his face - voiceless desire suppressed by uncertainty. "It is not only gratitude I feel," he replied softly. He took a step forward and knelt before Sean. "Sean, that night...you called me 'love'. Didst thou speak true?"

Sean's throat tightened 'til he could scarcely breathe. "And if I did," he managed, "What of it?"

Ned's blazing smile illuminated the corners of the room and put the candlelight to shame. He pressed himself to Sean's body, fitting neatly between his spraddled legs, and whispered shakily:

"I love thee, Sean. An you want me, I am thine."

~~~~~~

  
Edward, clothéd, took Sean's breath away; naked - he stopped Sean's heart. His body was a pale flame in the gloom - smooth as Carrara marble, his skin as soft as the finest silk. Sean looked his fill, until a blush mantled Ned's cheek, and he pulled Sean down beside him, tangling his fingers in the coppery curls.

"Sean," he breathed. "Tarry not, my love."

Sean pressed his lips blindly against the moonglow skin, ghosting across the shoulder's curve, the silken throat, and finally finding purchase upon eager lips and questing tongue. Their first taste of each other was as heady as the finest wine. Sean drank deep of Ned's sweetness, all else forgotten. He had lain with many women, but nothing he had ever felt compared to this. The aching desire consumed him, salted with such emotion, as he had never had the joy to feel. He whispered brokenly against the warmth of Ned's mouth, "...I want thee...god, I want thee...I want to be the vessel of thy love...to feel thy light fill me...to have thee drink from me in turn..."

He pulled Ned atop his body, mindful of his greater weight. The lad moved against him with surprising strength, and they found a rhythm; their straining shafts rubbing deliciously together, their bodies as one from neck to knee. Ned raised his head and contemplated his lover's body through languorous eyes. Sean's nipples were as rosy hawthorn buds upon the expanse of his golden skin, and Ned bent his head and took one swiftly into his warm mouth, suckling it, worrying at it with his velvet tongue. Sean arched against him with a low cry, and his caressing hands swept the long curve of Ned's back and settled on the twin mounds of firm flesh, kneading, loving with his touch. All too soon, an urgency began to manifest in their frenzied movements; rapidly building to a release that shook them to the core; that unmade them and made them one.

They lay entwined for a long moment, their breathing harsh in the chill air. Then Ned slid aside with a groan and sat up, running his fingers through his tangled hair. The guttering candlelight glanced off his glorious eyes, and glistened on his belly, wet with their mingled seed. The green scent called to mind sacred groves and moonlit revelry; divine madness. Ned bent his leg and rested his chin on his knee, and smiled; and his eyes were veiled in mystery.

He was dryad...faun...and frighteningly _fey_.

Sean felt a cruel fist tighten about his heart. What he _saw_ with the 'sight' did not always come to pass. He would not let it happen. He would not. He drew Ned down against his body and held him tight.

"Mine...to me." he muttered thickly, fiercely.

"I...to thee." Ned agreed tenderly, and sought his lover's lips anew.


	4. Chapter 4

_The year 1578 of the Elizabethan Age_

  
T'was a summer night in London-Town, and the air was still and hot. The Thames had slowed to a trickle, and the mudflats revealed, shed noisome gases that wafted upward to join the miasma hanging above the Capital. In that part of the City called Cheapside, piles of stinking refuse littered the cobbled lanes, populated by points of beady light that shone malevolently in the dark.

~~~~~

  
In one of the many lodgings that lined the streets, two lovers lay, their nude bodies lit by candlelight. They moved in the ancient rhythms of love, beautiful in each other's eyes, oblivious to the world beyond.

Sean buried his shaft deep within his lover's welcoming heat with a groan, shuddering as he fought against release. He gazed down on the exquisite face, on the parted lips and the blue eyes heavy with passion, and was undone; and le petit Mort folded them in rushing wings and lifted them to ecstasy.

"I swear, my love - I heard the angels sing," Sean said with a smile as he reached out to snuff the candle carefully.

Ned curled into his side, already half-asleep. "Mayhap they did," he replied softly.

~~~~~

  
Sean woke with a gasp from an evil dream of fire. His body ran with sweat and the room was suffocatingly hot. Hotter still was the familiar weight against his naked back and he turned swiftly, his heart in his mouth. Ned's breath whistled through chapped lips and his skin burned against Sean's hand. Bile rose in Sean's throat as he felt the tell-tale swelling beneath the delicate jaw - and he went mad. His despairing cry cut through the quiet dawn like a harbinger of doom, and in the half-deserted streets below, passers-by made signs of warding and quickened their dragging steps.

_Plague. _

The scourge was abroad in the great City of London. The Queen and her court had removed to Windsor Castle, and She had ordered the gates of the City sealed, in a vain attempt to spare the countryside. The taverns and alehouses were closed and public assembly was outlawed - and still the people died. London had become a charnel-house - and the burial pits were filling rapidly.

  
~~~~~  


  
John McAllen had offered the sanctuary of his home when the pestilence struck, for none of the Company would leave the City if their fellows stayed. For most of them, the Company was the only family they had. Mistress Kate had some skill with herbs, and the mixtures she concocted eased the fever in some small measure. She was dead now, and John had followed soon after; their bodies gone to feed the pits. Will Scot had taken an ague in the early summer and his weakened body was no match for the plague demon - he too had succumbed. The loss of the brother of his heart had taken Dominick hard, and for a time they had feared that he would follow. Of the troupe, only he, Sean and Owen were still hale, though they clung to sanity with uncertain grasp - for both Ned and Martyn were failing fast.

Sean rose from the makeshift hearthside and looked round the tiny garret room. None knew of its existence save themselves, now that John and Kate were gone. On the street door below, the plague mark lingered scarlet on the faded wood, but to casual eyes, the house was empty. Will's shrouded body lay against the far wall, and his eyes avoided it. Dominick sat at the table, his head in his hands, sunk in a stupor of exhaustion. They had slept but little in the days gone past, and the strain was beginning to tell. Sean's eyes came to rest on Owen, and his heart clenched in helpless pity. The lad knelt at Martyn's side, his shoulders bowed in silent grief; dipping water from a bowl to bathe his lover's fevered body with soothing hands. Martyn moaned in delirium and convulsed, throwing Owen back, and Sean hastened to hold the thrashing body down.

"T'will not be long now." he said sadly, when Martyn had finally quieted. "Rest you awhile, lad, and Dominick will keep the watch."

Owen kissed his lover's lips and his tears fell softly on the still face. "Thou shall not go alone." he whispered, and his words echoed with resolve.

Sean turned away wearily and moved toward the pallet nearest the hearth. Ned stared up at him, face as pale as the linen on which he lay. The glazed blue eyes blinked slowly and the cracked lips moved. "Love--" he whispered. "--I thirst." Sean spooned a little watered wine into the parched mouth and smiled tenderly at his beloved. "You will be well, Ned. I promise thee - wait but a while, and thou wilt see." He lay down beside him and gathered the wasted body gently into his arms. Then he closed his eyes, and the flames that he had _seen_ when first they met, no longer seemed a threat, but a promise of deliverance.

Dominick raised his head from his arms and stared at the two in amazement. The certainty he had heard in Sean's voice filled him with a deep unease.

The hot hours crawled by, and Sean started from his sleep. Ned lay quietly in his arms, hardly seeming to breathe, and he wondered hazily what it was that had roused him. He felt the familiar touch of his curséd gift and his breath caught sharply. He laid Ned down, rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered as the visions crashed down upon him. Flames and pain and screaming were his world entire, and sweat poured down his rigid body as he fought the panic down. When he could move again, he crossed to the shuttered window and peered out through a crack at the street below. He rested his head on the wood for a moment as a tremor shook him; then he turned back to the room and his mind had a clarity it had not held in days.

"Dominick," he said casually. "We are nearing the last of our store of herbs. Prithee, go thou to Master Thomas the apothecary and purchase enough for our needs. You know what not to say." He tossed his purse to his friend and turned to Owen. "Wilt thou go with him and see what provender you can find? I shall see to our supper. Go quickly now."

He saw them through the hidden trapdoor on the floor and waited until they were well away. They would pass through hidden ways and emerge onto one of the alleyways that laced the close-packed neighborhood. Then he closed and barred the trap and moved to pull Martyn's pallet to the middle of the room. The playwright's skin was grey in hue and his breath labored in his breast. Sean then did the same with Ned's bedding and sat beside him, stroking his hair, speaking softly of a future that now would never come. After a time, he raised his head and sniffed deeply. The stink of smoke and nameless things caught at his throat and he rose to his feet and peered through the crack in the boards.

Cheapside was in flames. Men ran down the narrow street bearing torches, and more made a ring around, shouting with hoarse voices for all hale occupants to leave. They were burning out the pestilence on the Queen's orders. Sean saw Owen and Dominick race down the street towards him, saw them fight to get through the crowd, and heard Owen scream his lover's name. Oaken cudgels rose and fell and the screams ceased.

"I am sorry, Owen." he whispered, and, finally, the tears came.

The roof was beginning to smolder, and the tears dried on his face. Martyn was past caring, and Sean stroked his friend's face in farewell. Then he lifted Ned into his arms and kissed him deeply, tenderly. Lips that once were soft and sweet were now dry and bitter with his tears. Ned arched against him, coughing as the smoke tore at his lungs and his eyes flew open, clear and very blue. The innocent gaze was a benediction and Sean smiled through his tears.

_Yea, my love, the angels sang for thee._

Glowing embers began to drift down from the rafters and Sean saw Ned's eyes widen at the sight above him, and then slowly glaze over. He bent over him and pressed the dark head to his heart in futile protection. Sean felt Ned's gasping breath caress his skin; then the thin body shuddered once, then twice, and stilled forever. The last thing Sean saw before the searing agony took him, was the look of ineffable peace on his lover's face, young again and beautiful as he had been, a lifetime ago. And the last emotion he felt, was a transcendent joy.

_Fare thee well, my own. We shall meet anon._

  


~~~~~

  
The Gods weep.

In the Hall of Akashic Records, four plinths stand empty in the curling mist. On one of them, a sapphire afterimage lingers in the mind's eye. Of the three Books that remain, one glows green, shot through with angry light. The last words on the page flicker sullenly, and then go out. A boon is owed this Soul. The space glows with sudden light, and on the plinths, new Books appear.

The Hall endures.


	5. Chapter 5

_Time is a silver river, swiftly flowing, and a thousand years are but a dream to a wandering soul..._

It is the dawn of a new millennium, and we traverse the Hall anew.

Beyond the doors the plinths sweep out, adrift on veils of pearly mist, each with its burden of a soul. They march out in eerie majesty, into infinity, into legend, into myth.

In this place and time, seven souls concern us, as they did once before. Of the Seven, one Book glows with the white-hot gold in the center of a star, searing to the mortal eye. Oldest and eldest, this soul is approaching its journey's end. Another's glow has acquired a crimson cast, the hue of artistry, the brand of creativity. Yet another soul floats at the heart of an emerald haze, remote and beautiful, its psychic potential dormant and denied. And one soul gleams with a deep sapphire glow, the youngest of the Seven, pulsing in time to the music of the spheres.

The pages turn. A new chapter begins...

  


~~~~~

The New Zealand Press Association  
Wellington, NZ January 20, 2000

Since filming began on October 11, 1999, the many-bodied entity that is the cast and crew of 'The Lord of the Rings' production has traveled the length and breadth of New Zealand, like a horde of army ants. At the helm of the swarm is filmmaker Peter Jackson, intent on bringing the much-loved book to life. And at the center of it all is the hobbit, Frodo Baggins (Elijah Wood), bearer of the One Ring, his servant and good friend Samwise Gamgee (Sean Astin) and a motley group of fellow travellers: the hobbits Pippin and Merry (Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan), the human ranger Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen), the woodland elf Legolas (Orlando Bloom), the Gondorian warrior Boromir (Sean Bean), the dwarf Gimli (John Rhys-Davies), and their mentor and guide, the wizard Gandalf (Ian McKellen). They are - 'The Fellowship of the Ring', and their journey is just beginning...

  
 ~~~~~

Sean Astin stuck the last candle in, and surveyed his handiwork critically. Nineteen candles - and he counted them again, just to be sure. The cake sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the cafeteria marquee, rimmed by Elijah's favorite strawberries, plump and luscious. Everything was ready. All he needed now was the birthday boy.

"So - where's Elijah then?" Billy wanted to know.

Sean shrugged, "He's with Pete. He'll be here in a bit."

Dominic looked up from the pie he was demolishing and remarked, "It's funny - how you always know where he is, Sean. What's your secret, huh?"

"I'm observant?" Sean really didn't like the direction this was taking.

"Bullshit - you weren't even there this morning." Dom tried for a cajoling tone. "Com'on, Sean, you can tell us - I mean - look, we're the hobbits, right? We're so close we're downright incestuous. So - what did you do - plant a bug on him?"

"Yeah, Astin," Billy put in. "Would come in handy - I'd love to know where Dom disappears of a night, I would!"

"Wouldn't you -" whatever Dom had been about to say was forgotten when a carrot stick struck him on the side of his head and slithered down his face. He jerked his head around and stared about him with narrowed eyes. Three pairs of eyes stared back with elaborate innocence, and the next minute, a full-scale food fight was in progress. Hobbits against humans and elf, as usual, and the latter were winning, as always. Laughter filled the marquee and overflowed onto the clearing beyond.

Sean breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve and moved his chair to guard the cake. Dom's words had stirred a nest of worms in his mind. Now the worms writhed, strands of unease, tangling - going nowhere. He didn't know _how_ he knew - he just did. Just like he had _known_ Elijah when they had first met, in that hotel lobby last August. When he had flown into Sean's arms, exuberant and joyous, and Sean had been struck dumb; incredulous at the hot surge of tenderness, at the powerful urge to protect, and at the thought that had come out of the blue. _I know you_, it had whispered.

If he had been a more gullible sort, he might have called it déjà vu, but he was Sean; solid, practical Sean, and he had called it coincidence.

_What if some other actor had been hired to play Frodo?_ he wondered idly. His hands clenched into fists at the thought and a cold sweat broke out all over him. Some unknown English twit would've gotten the part - and he would never have known Elijah, never would have been _his_ Samwise. His heart ached at the very thought. It could've happened; Peter certainly wasn't infallible. Remember Stuart? Sean's eyes went to Viggo, who sat laughing at the byplay between Orli, Bean and the hobbit boys, and he smiled involuntarily. No, Pete wasn't infallible, but God be praised - he was almost inhumanly _lucky_. Everything had gone his way; New Line was almost comical in its non-interference, and he had gotten the funding he needed, the cast he wanted, and the perfect Frodo. If there was a goddess whose forté was happy families, they were her worshippers. The whole enterprise seemed to have been blessed by all the Fates. If Peter fell into a cesspit, he'd come up smelling like roses - he was that lucky.

A happy giggle, a flash of brilliant blue, and the birthday boy had arrived, with Peter hard on his hobbity heels. Cries of "Happy birthday, Frodo!" and the equivalent in the liquid Maori tongue peppered the air. Sean watched him make his way around the tables, watched the faces turn towards him like flowers to the sun, and saw those faces melt into helpless smiles of affection. Sean marveled again at their good fortune. If Peter Jackson was the puppet-master, Elijah was the glue that held the puppets together. He never complained, he never whined, and throughout the six-day weeks, the sometimes appalling filming conditions, and the early dawn calls, he never lost his sense of humor, or his unfailing courtesy. If he did lose it, he lost it in private, on Sean's shoulder. How could others bitch when the Ringbearer didn't? And he was so much fun to be with, too, on-set and off.

Sean smiled inwardly at his fancies, and watched as the others crowded around Elijah, presenting him with their gifts. There was a framed sketch from Viggo, books from Ian and John, CDs from Bean and Billy and a video game from Dom. Orli's gift of a garish t-shirt made him squint and wince. Elijah accepted them all with laughing thanks, and then he looked up and their eyes met.

Sean felt a flush warm his face and he got up hurriedly to light the candles on the cake. He'd gone to Elijah's trailer early this morning after Feet and given him his gift. He'd thought long and hard about it; what do you give to a guy who's got everything? What could he give that would mean something more? And what did he want his gift to say, anyway? In the end, he'd gone to Ngila with an idea and had asked her for help. She'd found a shop that did hand-made pillows, and he'd commissioned a travel pillow in a sturdy carrying-case. He had chosen a soft, velvety corduroy in a jewel-toned blue, as near to Elijah's eyes as he and Ngila could find, and the finished product had an underside of blue-dyed leather and a legend in maroony-brown embroidery that read 'The Lord of the Rings' in elvish script and the name 'Frodo Baggins.'

"For when you want to take a nap on-set," Sean had said slyly. Elijah's catnaps were fast becoming the stuff of legend. "Can be dry-cleaned, too."

Elijah's eyes shone with pleasure and he had nuzzled the pillow against his cheek, exclaiming at the softness of it. Then he'd looked up suddenly and stared at Sean in puzzlement. "Sean," he'd said slowly, "- it smells - of you."

Damn. He had totally forgotten. Sean tried to cover up his guilty start with a quick shrug. He'd come out of the shower this morning and the pillow had been lying on the dresser. He'd picked it up for a last look, and something had made him press it to his face; something that had made his chest tighten and his breath catch; and he had closed his eyes and *Jesus. Sean, you are *so* fucked up* yeah, he'd kissed it - kissed the embroidered name. His aftershave must've gotten on the pillow then.

"It does?" he had replied innocently. "Well, I did handle it quite a bit. Want me to have it cleaned for you?"

Elijah had shaken his head and had clutched the pillow to his chest protectively. "No!" he protested. "I mean - I like it, Sean. It makes me feel - I dunno - safe?"

He had leaned forward then, to wrap his arms around Sean's neck and murmur "thank you" against his cheek. The warm puff of air against the sensitive skin had made Sean shiver and he'd turned his head to plant a kiss on the hobbit curls. Lijah'd turned too, and the kiss had fallen awry, landing on the silky skin at the corner of his soft mouth. It had been the mere whisper of a butterfly's wing, the jolt of a live wire meeting flesh. They'd stared at each other then, their lips a finger's length away, and it would have been so easy, so simple, to just - begin. The world took on a crystalline clarity, and all of Sean's life showed in sharp relief. He'd seen it all, the fork in his path, the maybes and the might-have-beens and he couldn't take it; all his defensive walls reared up against it. Barriers erected by a lifetime of trying to bring a sense of order to a life in disarray, of trying to be all things to all people.

He hadn't imagined the answering spark in the cobalt eyes - the startled recognition. Simple to begin, yeah, but could he stand the inevitable ending? God. No. He really, really didn't think so.

He'd lifted a trembling finger to Elijah's cheek and stroked the soft skin. "You're welcome, Frodo Baggins." he said unsteadily. "And I can replace the stink anytime. Just you ask."

The dense lashes had swept down, veiling the speaking blue eyes. When they lifted again, those eyes were soft with understanding. He'd laughed, and punched Sean on the shoulder. "If you can bottle it, Sean," he'd returned, giggling. "I'll buy it all."

~~~~~

Sean had his face under control by the time Elijah reached the cake. He watched indulgently as Lij extinguished the candles with one long puff, and stared longingly as he plucked a strawberry from its nest and licked the icing from it with a darting pink tongue. He held his breath as the scarlet berry disappeared slowly between lips that rivaled the fruit in luscious hue, and he felt as though all his being was concentrated in his hungry gaze. Then Elijah shut his eyes and hummed with pleasure, and Sean felt the vibration go directly to his groin, and the burgeoning hardness there. God - but the boy was beautiful. Frodo's dark curls suited his delicate features; the incredible eyes, thick lashes sooty against the ivory skin, the dewy lips, the youthful body lithe in the hobbit costume. The roaring in his ears heralded the need to breathe, and Sean took a shuddering breath, realizing belatedly that the tent had fallen silent. Everyone was watching Elijah too, with varying degrees of appreciation, and there was a tension in the air, so thick, you could've cut it with the cake knife. Then Lij turned, a happy grin on his face, and the air shivered as pent-up breaths were released and the watchers tore their eyes away. The whole show had only lasted a few seconds, yet Sean felt as though hours had passed and he had run an uphill mile to boot. Sweat trickled down his spine and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Sean seldom swore, except in the privacy of his thoughts. He did so now. Fuck, he thought despairingly. Fuck, and fuck again. He didn't think that he could take eleven more months of this. Because this was going to last; he knew it with a sick certainty. This unwholesome craving he had for a co-star ten years his junior - this had all the hallmarks of permanence. Elijah was woven into the warp and weft of his heart and mind, a vital thread in the pattern of his life. He couldn't unravel him, even if he wanted to. And he had to deal with it - the constant eerie awareness, the profound need - because he wasn't alone in this. There was the movie to consider, and Sam needed Sean whole.

Elijah dropped into the chair beside Sean and decanted his presents onto the table with a sigh. He hadn't seemed to notice the brief moment of mass voyeurism, but then, for someone who looked like he did, he was oddly unaware of the effect he had on other people. Sean handed him a can of diet pop and pulled the slumping figure upright in the chair. Then he moved his hand to the back of the pale neck and dug his thumb into the knots he found there, kneading them loose.

"God, Sean, that feels great," Elijah sighed, then glanced at him sideways and smiled. "You always know what I need, don't you?"

"Now, Mr. Frodo, sir," Sean replied with a Sam grin. "I'm here to do for you, and don't you forget it. Part of the service, sir, if I may say so."

Dom harrumphed from across the table, where he was trying without success to steal the strawberry from Billy's slice of cake. "You still haven't answered my question, Seanwise. I won't forget, y'know."

Billy ignored him and asked Elijah, "What's the schedule for this afternoon, Lij?" They all knew better than to trust the call sheet pinned up in the make-up trailer every morning.

"We finish up here, then it's back to the studio set to do over some Bree scenes." Elijah favored the two with a questioning look. "Pete isn't satisfied with the scale thing. I think he wants to cut us down to size."

"Chopping off my head will do the trick," Dom muttered peevishly. "Thought we'd get off early today - seeing as how it's his nibs' birthday and all."

"Dominic, me lad," Billy grinned at him affectionately. "Early or late, the results will be nae different. You'll have a head start on the drinking whichever way."

Sean wasn't paying any attention to the repartee. _Bree,_ he thought. _Shit._

 

~~~~~

Sean didn't know why he disliked the Bree set so much. Well, maybe 'disliked' was too strong a word. Rather, it unsettled him, really creeped him out. Heck, it was just a movie set, right? Just like countless others he'd acted in before. So why did this one bother him so much?

The four hobbits stood patiently outside the door while the make-up people sprayed them carefully with warm water and Pete explained what he was planning to do. Then he left, the clapper sounded, and they pushed through, helped along by a shower of 'rain' and a gust of wind from a huge fan. The tavern set was empty except for Peter, the film crew and a stuntie in one of those stilt suits. One of the key lights had been covered with red and orange cello and it cast a lurid glow over everything and everyone. Elijah went through his lines with Peter filling in as Barliman, while the rest of the hobbits waited, looking around with fascination and a hint of fear in their faces. Sean was finding it difficult to concentrate - the room seemed to recede and advance by turns - and there was something wrong with his vision. He took a deep breath and suddenly - he was somewhere else - a place with the same lurid glare, peopled by faces he didn't know, his ears assailed by sounds and words he couldn't place. It seemed to go on forever, a whirling kaleidoscope of weirdness, and he couldn't move, couldn't make a sound; and then a jolt shook him and turned the world askew, and the lights went out.

The stuntman stopped in consternation. He was supposed to push though the hobbit actors on his way towards the door, and they were supposed to look up at him in trepidation and get out of the way. But one of them didn't, and now the guy was on the floor and what the fuck was he going to do now? At least, he hadn't hurt him bad, 'cause the guy - oh, it's Mr. Astin - was sitting up now.

"Sean! What the - are you okay?" Dom and Billy were down on their knees beside him, their arms around Sean's shoulders.

"Dizzy - what happened?" Sean looked around muzzily. "Oh. Did I fall?"

Elijah had turned from the oversized bar and taken in the scene with wide eyes. He was at Sean's side with a bound, shaking hands tugging at Sean's sleeve, trying to look into his friend's eyes.

"Somebody!" he snapped. "Get a chair!" And to Sean, urgently, "Seanie, did you hit your head? Does it hurt anywhere?" He ran an agitated hand over the back of Sean's head.

"No -" Sean shook his head experimentally. "I'm okay. Sorry, guys - I must be more tired than I thought."

They helped him get up and he gulped as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Peter shoved a chair against the backs of his knees and pushed his head down. "Sean - put your head between your knees." he advised.

_And kiss my ass goodbye._ Sean thought distractedly. What was wrong with him? Was he going nuts? He forced himself to calm down, to think clearly, and found to his surprise that it took no effort at all. His thought processes were as clear as they had ever been. That didn't go with hallucinations, did it? A raised voice intruded on his musing and he looked up to see Elijah, hands clenched into fists, confronting the confused stuntie. "Why'd you push him?" Elijah was yelling, his face contorted with fury.

"Hey," the man returned, bristling. "I can't see too well with the head on, okay? And this rig isn't exactly easy to handle! Ask _him_ why he didn't get out of the way like he was supposed to!"

"Look," Sean interrupted with finality. "It wasn't anyone's fault, all right? I just felt dizzy for a second and missed my cue. I'm okay now, so let's get this over with."

Elijah calmed down eventually and apologized. Dom fingered his chin and looked at his friend speculatively. Interesting, he mused. This was the first time he'd ever seen Elijah lose his cool.

~~~~~

The club was noisy and crowded, as everyone who could get away celebrated the Ringbearer's birthday. Viggo, Bean and Ian were there, and the hobbits and elf, of course. John had begun to show an allergic reaction to the prosthetics and had begged off. Sean took it easy on the alcohol, although the set doctor had given him a clean bill of health, and he felt pleasantly buzzed. He didn't want to think about what had happened anyway, and drinking helped him forget for a while. And he had other things to think about. Things like the paleness of Elijah's skin against the all-black t-shirt and jeans that he had chosen to wear tonight. Under the shifting black light and the strobes of the dance floor, his arms and head seemed disembodied, weaving through the air with hypnotic grace, his body a dark flame, flickering and writhing in counterpoint. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, and the thick lashes threw long shadows that scored the flushed cheeks like ritual scars. He looked positively, incandescently divine; ripe for sacrifice, untouchable. Sean pressed the cold bottle against his hot forehead and winced. He had a long night ahead of him.

It was past midnight by the time they got back to their hotel. Everyone had insisted on buying drinks for the birthday boy, and Elijah had accepted all of them. He was well and truly monged. He turned an alarming shade of green in the elevator and they managed to rush him down the hallway and into his bathroom before he threw up on them. It was a close thing. Sean and Billy cleaned him up and stripped him of t-shirt and jeans, leaving him his boxers, while Dom cleared a path to the bed and turned it down.

"Seanie," a drowsy voice called as they turned to go.

Elijah lay in bed, blankets tucked up to his chin. Fearfully mature in so many ways, he looked about twelve years old in the dim light of the lamp. "Sean," he said fretfully. "Want my pillow."

Sean looked around the room blearily and located the bag near the door. He stripped the cover off the pillow and crossed to the bed to hand it to its owner. Lij took it with a sleepy smile and snuggled down, nuzzling it against his cheek and taking a deep breath. Within a heartbeat or two, he was asleep.

Sean felt a huge rush of tenderness and longing overwhelm him, and he reached down to smooth the soft hair back. "Sweet dreams, Frodo," he whispered softly. "I love you."

Then he turned to find two pairs of incredulous eyes regarding him from the doorway.

"What?!" he snapped defensively as he marched past, flicking the light off.

"Jesus," Dom marveled, "He'll be wanting a bloody bedtime story next." But he cast an affectionate look back as he shut the door.

 

~~~~~

The summer night was hot and humid, and the darkness throbbed to the beat of his aching eyes. Sean felt restless, uneasy, and the questions returned to torment his unwilling brain. _Was this - attraction - something else to be laid at his mother's door?_ he wondered bleakly. It would be easy - so easy to blame her for this too. But the honesty that was the bedrock of his nature told him - no. Not this time, Astin. This time the fault was his; and the choices - they were his to make. He'd grown up in Hollywood, for chrissakes - there had been no lack of beautiful boys to tickle his fancy; if he'd had that particular itch, he would've wanted to scratch it long ago. His wife and daughter were proof of his sexuality, weren't they? And they'd had ten years of loving marriage; no passion, not any more, but he had been faithful, yes, in thought and deed.

Until now.

He surrendered at last to the inevitable, and relaxed, his arms lying loose, his hands upturned. His frantic heartbeat slowed and his churning mind grew still. The images rose, twisting, from the deep silence of his guarded memories and liquid heat pooled in his groin, shimmering. _He walked in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies..._ his personal blue-eyed demon. His incubus.

His Elijah.

He found release, and drifted into sleep. And in the night, when it was darkest, just before the dawn, the screaming started.


	6. Chapter 6

They boiled out into the hallway in varying states of undress, and milled about confusedly for a few seconds.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Who screamed, dammit?"

"Where's the fire?"

Three pairs of bloodshot eyes swiveled towards Billy, and someone moaned.

"Fire..." Sean breathed raggedly. "There was fire - but it was a dream." He leaned against the wall with his eyes shut, rubbing his arms absently. "It was a dream," he repeated, as if to reassure himself.

Orlando stared at him in consternation. "I dreamt fire too - what the fuck's going on here?"

"Sean screamed," stated Billy positively. "Scared the crap right out of me. Right next door to me, he is, and I heard him plain."

"Shhh - " Dom frowned, turning his head this way and that. "I thought I heard something. Quiet, all of you!"

They fell silent obediently, and then Sean's head came up with a jerk, a wild look in his eyes. "Elijah! It's Elijah!"

There was a concerted rush down the hallway, and they fetched up against the sturdy door. Above the pounding of their fists on the wood rose a keening wail, queerly muffled, and so filled with terror - it raised the hackles on the backs of their necks.

"Fuck - get the key!"

The door shook as Sean's shoulder thudded against it.

"Sean! You had it when - Sean! Don't try it, man! You'll hurt yourself! Quick - where's the key?"

"Key - nightstand. My room."

"Billy - "

"--"

"Got it!"

~~~~~

He was caught in a loop that fed back on itself - that had no end.

He was dying. The very air burned and seethed in his tortured lungs, and every breath was agony. He could feel the heat searing his skin; he could feel the pain, bright, sharp and terrible. The burning beam lay across his body, pinning him down. He lifted a heavy hand to push at it, and his flesh charred and peeled off his bones; the blood boiled in his veins and his nostrils were filled with the stench of burning meat.

He was dying. A vista of fire spread out above him, mocking his torment. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, couldn't feel his body. Already darkness crept in from the corners of his vision, mercifully obscuring the flames above. He could let go now; let it claim him; and leave...

He was dying...

~~~~~

The door rebounded off the wall with the force of Sean's shove, denting the plaster deeply where it hit. He plunged into the darkness of the room, heading blindly in the direction of the bed, and Dom followed hard on his heels, fumbling for the switch. He found it and sudden light flooded the room. A twitching bundle lay across the bed, wound tightly in the blankets, featureless, frightening. As they rushed forward, the frantic writhing slowed, and the moaning descended into a gasping struggle for breath. Sean found an edge, grasped it and yanked hard. The bundle unrolled rapidly, spilling Elijah's sweat-soaked body out, splaying him face down across the rumpled sheets. Sean scrambled after him, panting, and turned him over; staring down at the ashen face still locked into a rictus of terror. He grabbed Elijah's shoulders in desperation and shook him hard.

"Lijah! Lijah, goddamnit!" his voice wavered on the breaking edge. "Wake up - please!"

Billy disappeared into the bathroom for a glass of water, while Dom and Orli crowded around the bed, adding their voices to Sean's pleas. Suddenly Lij's shallow breathing caught in an animal moan of fear; his eyes flew open and a whirlwind of flailing limbs exploded in Sean's arms. An arm cracked him upside the head and for a moment he saw stars. He buried his head in the crook of Elijah's neck and wrapped his arms around the thrashing body, while Orli and Dom captured the kicking legs and held them down.

"Lijah, love - wake up!" he murmured, over and over. "You're only dreaming, Lij - wake up!"

Finally he felt the tense body loosen, and he raised his head cautiously. Glazed blue eyes stared up at him and focused. "Sean," Elijah whispered brokenly, his voice a thin thread of sound. "I - I died, Seanie." The frightened eyes filled with tears and the sobs that followed shook the slender frame.

Sean threw the damp blankets aside with a curse. "I'm taking him to my room. He can't stay here." He shifted to the edge of the bed, his face a grim mask of anguish, and lifted Elijah, cradling him against his bare chest. Billy scooped a bathrobe off the floor and covered the shivering body, tucking the folds under Sean's arms, and the unlikely cavalcade started down the hallway, moving as quickly as they could. When they reached the room, Sean laid his burden on the bed and climbed in after him. Dom went around to the other side and got in too, his eyes daring Sean to object. Sean nodded shortly, reached out to bring him closer, and together they spooned Elijah, careful to not cover his face. Billy and Orli settled at the foot of the bed, each taking an icy foot in hand, massaging and warming it. No one spoke.

~~~~~

Elijah felt the tendrils of heat curling through his body, warming him, loosening the hard knot of terror in his chest, burning the phantoms from his memory. They came from all around him; from Dom, whose bristly chin rested against his forehead, whose soothing fingers riffled through his hair; from Bill and Orli, who pressed closely against his legs, warming them; from his Seanie, whose soft breath he felt on the back of his neck, whose comforting arm held him so gently against the solid body. The tears rose in his throat again, the easy tears of raw emotion. He had never felt anything like this, ever. It felt so right, this intimate sharing, uncolored by any kind of sexual overtone, profound, yet undemanding. He could feel the love, like a bath of blood-warm, silky water. He luxuriated in it for a few minutes more, and then stirred slightly, sighing.

"Gods - I love you, guys," he muttered hoarsely. His throat was raw and sore, but the tears were gone. "I'm sorry I woke you. I screamed, didn't I?"

"Ye weren't the only one screaming, laddie." Billy raised his head, sighting up Elijah's body to his face. "Near as I can tell - you, Sean and Orli - all three of you had the same dream. Now, how weird is that?"

"Four," Dom said slowly. "I dreamt of fire too."

"All four of you?" Billy echoed. "Shit."

Elijah struggled to sit up, and Sean leaned up against the headboard and pulled him back to rest against his chest. "I died," he whispered. "Over and over, I died. Sometimes I burned, sometimes I suffocated - on smoke, I think." He shuddered, and rubbed a trembling hand across his face.

"You don't have to tell us, Lij. If it bothers you too much." Sean rubbed his back soothingly. His guts were in knots at the very thought of Elijah in pain - never mind dying. "I had much the same dream, except - I just burned. It hurt - a lot," he admitted reluctantly.

"I need to talk about it," Lij insisted. "Sean - I can't deal with this alone. It fucking scares me - I'll never look at fire the same way ever again." He shrank back against Sean's arms and they wrapped around him protectively.

"I know what you mean." Orli had been unusually silent up 'till now. "Me, I dreamed of fire - but I remember most the sadness - oh my god - the sadness..." He shut his eyes for a moment and swallowed hard.

"What about you, Dom?" Billy asked tentatively.

Dominic nodded towards Orli. "What he said," he answered tersely. "Bill, you didn't dream at all?"

"Nooo..." Billy hesitated. "I don't usually remember my dreams, unless I'm rudely awakened - and Sean here was horribly discourteous tonight." He shrugged and his lips twisted in a parody of a smile. "I dreamed that I was doing Shakespeare or some period piece - anyway, all of you were on stage too. Probably my subconscious telling me to lose the hairy feet and concentrate on real acting for a change. But no - no fire at all."

"I think this is all a weird coincidence," Sean said flatly. "Too much alcohol or something. We've got an early start tomor - er, today. We really should get some more sleep."

"No!" Elijah's voice was tense and tight. "No," he said again, more calmly. "I - I don't think I can sleep any more." He turned his head to look up at Sean pleadingly. "Can I stay here, Sean? I won't bother you - I promise. You go to sleep - I'll be fine."

Sean flinched. _Sleep?_ With Elijah only inches away, tousled and tempting - in his bed, in the dark? Deeply buried dreams stirred fitfully in the depths of his memory, clamoring to be made real. He stared down on Elijah's upturned face, and his vision seemed to blur. He saw the parted lips take on a swollen fullness; saw the almond eyes grow dark and heavy with the promise of passion; felt the weight of the slight body warm against his skin. He tore his eyes away with an effort and glanced up, to meet Dominic's ironic gaze. Their eyes clung for a moment, and then Dom looked away, his face unreadable. Sean's heart pounded like all the drums of Africa and he eased away from Elijah, afraid that he would feel it.

"No," he agreed, his voice as steady as he could make it. "You're right, Lij. I don't think I could sleep either. What about the rest of you?"

A chorus of negatives answered him. He glanced at the window, realizing that the darkness had given way to the watery light of dawn. "It's almost time for our wake-up call anyway," he decided. "Let's clean up and go grab a coffee, okay?"

This definitely wasn't the time, or the place. But for the presence of the others, he might have surrendered to his need; taken his chances. And a tiny, buried piece of his mind wondered; would there ever be a time and place for both of them - ever?

~~~~~

By mid-morning, the entire fellowship knew about the nightmares. The five of them were seated around a table in craft services, downing innumerable cups of coffee, when Viggo joined them. He tossed a small notebook on the table and looked round at the haggard faces.

"You look like death warmed over," he said, in that light, breathy voice of his.

Dom groaned. "Vig, lose the clichés, will you? My head's just about falling off here."

Viggo ignored him pointedly. "That was very intriguing - what happened to the lot of you last night." he began. Elijah raised his head from his folded arms and stared at him blearily.

"I remember most of my dreams." Viggo continued. "It's something I've trained myself to do. Never know when I might need them. As soon as I wake up, I write them down - here." He prodded at the notebook with a calloused finger. "I had a dream last night, and it woke me. I seemed to be on stage - in period costume. You were all in the dream with me - that is, you were and you weren't. Everyone was slightly off - Elijah, for example, was a girl," he paused to grin at Lij's indignant yelp. "You made a very lovely girl, little hobbit. Anyway, I find the whole thing passing strange. Especially since I am on the floor right above yours - and my room is right above Sean's. What's more, my dream parallels Billy's - and I have never acted on-stage since my stint at drama school."

"What are you saying, Vig?" Elijah gnawed at his fingernails nervously. "I mean - seriously - you sound like an episode of 'The Outer Limits' or something."

Viggo shrugged and replied, "I don't know, Lij. Haven't got any answers for you either. Just thought I'd complicate things a bit."

Elijah hunched his shoulders tiredly. "All I know is I've suddenly gotten a flaming phobia where I hadn't had one before. Jesus - even my bitty lighter flame freaks me out now. What's that one called, Seanie?" Viggo and the rest looked their puzzlement at the apparent non sequitur.

"Arsonphobia," Sean replied automatically.

"Huh. It figures." Elijah propped his chin on his hand and stared across the table at his best friend. He admired the quickness of his mind, the way it seized upon words and owned them. He loved to watch Sean think; loved the subtle play of thought across his face, the bright spark of his intelligence, his boundless curiosity and infectious enthusiasm.

Elijah had always had this problem. His mind ran like quicksilver, often way ahead of plodding words. Used to drive his mom crazy when he was younger. She never knew what he was going to say next, and oftentimes couldn't see the connection with words that came before. He'd learned to slow himself down since then. With Sean, he never had that difficulty; Sean always understood what he meant, always kept pace with him, interpreting his meanderings with effortless ease. They didn't even need words, anymore. Elijah sighed morosely. He was going to fucking miss Sean when this was all over. More than he thought he could stand.

The break was over, and the AD came over to call them back to the set. Elijah felt so frigging tired. He had to get some real sleep tonight. Sean had to be right - last night had been a fluke, a weird coincidence. And the dream was starting to fade from his memory; trying to remember it was like grasping at smoke. He shuddered. _Bad choice of metaphor, Elijah,_ he thought grimly. But the terror remained.

That night, they all went to bed early, desperate for rest. And against all rational experience, the nightmares returned. Dawn found them huddled together on Sean's king-sized bed, all five of them. Viggo knocked on the door, and then they were six. He and Billy admitted that they were beginning to dream of the flames too, although not as intensely as the others did; they could still find respite in sleep. Elijah lay curled up on his side, his head on Sean's shoulder, exhaustion in every line of his thin body. For some reason, he was having a harder time of it than any of them, and it showed.

"I'm taking you to Doc Irwin in the morning, Lij." Sean's voice was determined. "Get her to prescribe a sedative for you - you can't go on like this! And your schedule is crazy for the..."

Elijah pushed himself away from Sean, shaking his head violently. "No! I can't - the dreams'll come back - and what if I can't wake up? No - Sean - no!"

Sean gathered him back, holding him close against his body. "Shhh...it's okay, Lij - I won't if you don't want to. Look, try to nap now - we don't have an early call today, so you have time." He raised his head and looked around at the others. "Dom, Orli, Bill - try and get some sleep too. I'll stay awake - Viggo will too, won't you, Vig?" Viggo nodded from the room's only armchair. "Good - if anyone starts to dream, we'll wake you, okay?"

He felt Elijah begin to relax and buried his nose in the soft hair under his chin. He smelled of sweat, and a fragrant scent that was indescribably Elijah. Sean closed his eyes and sighed. Every cell in his body ached to protect this lovely man-child, sleeping so trustingly in his arms, and his heart wept at the knowledge that this time, he couldn't - didn't even know what to protect him from. He ached too, with the strain of remaining calm for all of them - when all he wanted to do was run screaming into the night.

That day, they filmed on the Rivendell and Bag End interior sets. The make-up people had an easy time of it; the dark circles under Frodo's eyes owed nothing to artifice and his skin was impossibly paler than it usually was. They were all frankly subdued today, and Sean was asleep in his make-up chair. Strong emotion used up a lot of energy, energy that they could ill afford to lose.

There was concern in Ian Mckellen's eyes as he watched his young co-star climb wearily into the huge elven bed. "Are you all right, m'boy?" he asked as Elijah subsided into the soft pillows. He had heard of the nightmares too, and he felt a frisson of unease as he stared at the pallid face.

"I'm fine, Ian," Lij lied. "Just tired. If I take a nap, will you wake me up before Pete comes in?"

"All right," Ian nodded. And added, "Elijah, you need help. Why don't..."

"Later, Ian, okay?" he murmured, and his eyes closed.

~~~~~

That night, Elijah didn't go to bed. He ordered up the horror movies he was so fond of on the hotel's equivalent of pay-per-view, and watched them until his eyes ached with tiredness. Then he went over his rewrites and tried to commit them to memory. The others didn't have his stamina, or his determination, and one by one they fell by the wayside, the need to sleep winning over the fear of dreams. Dawn found them all awake again - for the fires had returned.

Filming that day was an unmitigated disaster. Frodo's pillow saw an awful lot of use - and they dropped where they stopped, like puppets with their strings cut short. Peter called them together on the set and they felt the iron hand beneath the velvet glove.

"Look, guys," he growled. "We're not filming 'Dead Alive 2' here - and I didn't hire you to be a cast of zombies. Someone tell me what's going on - and it had better be good."

They didn't even have the energy to be properly scared. Finally Elijah spoke up - of them all, he was the closest to Peter. "Can't sleep," he said simply. "Keep on having these dreams." They all chimed in after that, the dam broken, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out.

Peter listened without comment, his eyes going from one actor to another. For all he knew, the wankers could've been indulging in group orgies or drinking parties for the past week. If it wasn't for Sean's haunted eyes and Viggo's flat gaze as he stood on the fringes of the group, he might have dismissed the whole thing as an elaborate attempt to get out of trouble.

"You're all going to Ian's tonight, aren't you?" he said neutrally. They nodded, and he continued, "Okay. I'm calling Doc Irwin in to the set tomorrow, and you'll see her. You will;" he promised, at Elijah's mutinous glare. "And you go straight back to the hotel and to bed - no side trips. I'll be checking, okay?" his voice softened. "I'm _in loco parentis_ to all of you - and I take my job seriously."

~~~~~

Ian handed him a drink as soon as he stepped through the door. He quirked his eyebrow questioningly and Ian winked roguishly. "I wanted to try self-medication in the form of excessive alcohol consumption, " he dead-panned. "But Peter said no. So your drinks are rationed tonight and you're all going home after supper. It seemed best to start immediately."

Sean gave him an answering grin and looked around the room. "Where's Lij?" he asked casually. Everyone else was present.

"He went to buy smokes - he'd run out." Dominic said absently, his eyes on the tube.

Sean felt an unreasoning panic rise in his throat at the words, and tamped it down ruthlessly. He could carry this 'safety hobbit' persona a little too far, he decided - and no one would thank him for it.

They got down to the enjoyable business of forging a real fellowship. Laughter filled the living room of Ian's rented house, but Sean couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Lij's absence was very like the gap left by a freshly pulled tooth, palpable and aching, and Sean couldn't help probing it with a metaphorical tongue. Finally he got up and started to pace.

He glanced at his watch. _It's been three-quarters of an hour - where is he? The store isn't very far; he should've been back by now!_

The phone rang and Ian excused himself to answer it. Sean stopped pacing and watched him hopefully - must be Elijah, he thought. Probably got caught up with fans and autograph hounds again. He saw Ian's back stiffen, saw the blue eyes flick to him and away, and heard the resonant voice soften into a near whisper. Then the old actor replaced the receiver and reached for his keys.

"That was Peter." he said quickly. "He wants us to meet him at the hospital. Elijah's been in an accident, and - Billy! Stop him! Don't let him drive!" he yelled as Sean dived toward the door.


	7. Chapter 7

The drive to the hospital seemed to take an eternity. Sean huddled on the back seat, wrapped in a fog of fear. His knees and palms hurt from contact with the graveled driveway; the result of Billy's flying tackle, and his ears still rang with the brutal directness of Viggo's words. "You're wasting time, Sean," he had said bluntly. "Give me the keys - I'll drive."

Pointless 'what ifs' skittered like mice through the mazes of his mind. _I shouldn't have let him go with Dom...I should have driven...should have made him see the doctor...oh god, what if he wasn't wearing a seat belt..._ his brain stopped, paralyzed.

Elijah. Broken. Battered. Bleeding. Hurting...

His breath escaped in a wrenching sob. _Why can't I feel him? How could I not know?_

The neon sign over the door read 'Emergency' - in bright, gory letters. They crowded in, the Fellowship minus one, and Peter waved from where he stood talking to a man in a white coat. "He's all right!" he yelled, his voice buoyant with relief. "He wasn't hurt!"

"Well - that's not entirely true, Mr. Jackson," the doctor chided. "Mr. Wood has a badly wrenched shoulder and some soft-tissue injuries that he will likely be feeling tomorrow. Overall, he was extremely lucky, for someone meeting a tree at considerable speed. He _was_ belted in, hence the shoulder, and it seems that he was entirely limp when he hit the airbag. Claims to have fallen asleep, actually." He shot the director a sharp look. "He is also _very_ debilitated. They're doing some more tests right now - it may be several hours before the blood work is done."

Sean felt a surge of relief that was painful in its intensity. He had to see Elijah - see him for himself - had to banish the terrifying images that still seethed in his mind.

"I want to see him - I have to see him," he pleaded, and Billy and Dom echoed his request in the same breath. "Please..."

The doctor - Dr E. Sims, his nameplate read - extracted a scrap of paper from his coat pocket and glanced at it. "Mr. Sean Astin?" Sean nodded eagerly. "He's been asking for you - and you may help us with a problem." The doctor motioned toward the inner door. "You can have ten minutes - and you can come too, Mr. Jackson. The rest of you will have to wait, please."

~~~~~

Elijah looked up as they entered the cubicle, cobalt eyes too bright in a too-pale face. He sat on the narrow examining table, his right shoulder immobilized, bound to his torso with bandages. They'd removed his shirt, and it lay over a chair, the yellow light of the room picking out points of light reflected from bits of glass.

"Sam. At last." he sighed, as the strong arms wrapped around him carefully, trembling with the effort of holding back. "I'm sorry I messed up - Pete, I'm so sorry..."

"Frodo. You had to try and take a shortcut to Mordor, didn't you?" Sean tried for levity, couldn't find it, and his voice shifted, to encompass a painful tenderness. "Without your Sam, too." His throat tightened, and he buried his face in the crook of Elijah's neck. "Don't ever go where I can't follow..." he whispered shakily.

Elijah's free arm tightened around Sean's neck and his eyes closed for a moment. A tear leaked out and rolled down his cheek, and he smiled tremulously as Sean disengaged himself.

Peter cleared his throat noisily. "Brat. D'you know how impossible it would be to replace you?" He paused, caught by his own words, and muttered, "Even if I wanted to."

"This will mess up the filming schedule, won't it," Elijah said penitently.

Peter shook his head quickly, "Nah - we'll have to defer the matrix moves, but there's plenty you can do on your knees, if need be. We'll get you over this, and then we'll see."

"About that problem -" the doctor interrupted. "From what I gather, Mr. Wood is in serious sleep deprivation, yet he absolutely refuses to take a sedative. I'm relying on both of you to change his mind."

"I'm not stupid!" Elijah protested. "I just don't want to take it here. Can't Doc Irwin give it to me at home? Back at the hotel, I mean - you'll stay with me, won't you, Sean?"

"He's taking one too," Peter said, before Sean could reply. "You all will - and if you resist, I can always have Lawrence and Sala hogtie you all and sit on you."

The thought of the hulking Maori actors made the two smile, as Peter had intended it would. "Don't worry," he assured the frowning doctor. "I can invoke contract and clause if I must. He'll cooperate."

~~~~~

Ian insisted that they all spend the night at his house, and Peter told the doctor to meet them there. The master bedroom was turned into a makeshift infirmary, with mattresses all over the floor and extra bedding brought over from somewhere. Viggo, Bean and Ian volunteered to watch the sleepers in shifts, and after a late supper, the doctor made the rounds with her needle, and did the deed.

Viggo had the first watch, and he settled with a book by the window, bathed in the glow of a small lamp. Sean felt sleep pulling insistently at him, and looked over at Elijah, beside him in the big bed, shoulder supported by a cushion, already deeply asleep. Viggo caught his eye and nodded. "Go to sleep, Sean," he said softly. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Sean smiled at the image that rose from his memory: Strider the ranger, still watching over his hobbit charges. He closed his eyes, strangely comforted, and slept.

~~~~~

The night was segueing into dawn when Viggo entered the room again. Ian looked up from his book, surprised.

"You couldn't sleep?" he asked quietly, concern on his face. "Are you dreaming again?"

Viggo answered with a short nod, and glanced around at the sleepers. They had obviously had a restless night. Dom lay half on the mattress, half on the floor, and Orli had thrown off his blankets entirely. Viggo went down on a knee and pulled the covers up over the smooth shoulder and his hand lingered there for a moment. Then he straightened up and looked toward the bed. The few feet that had separated the two earlier were gone - now, if they got any closer, they would merge into one. Elijah lay on his back, his head on Sean's shoulder, tucked under Sean's chin; Sean curled toward him protectively, and above the blanket line, their free hands were visible, Sean's laying on Elijah's chest and the smaller hand covering it, holding it there.

Viggo looked up, to meet Ian's sombre gaze. "You see it too," the older actor said softly. Viggo knew what he meant. "Yes," he replied, just as softly. "I also see a lot of heartache in it." And Ian nodded sadly.

It was noon when they started to stir, and Sean woke first, to the feel of a warm body pressed against him, and the tickle of bed hair on his nose. He drew a startled breath, and his sleep-dulled senses awoke to Elijah's scent, intensified by the warmth of his sleeping body. Awoke too, to his body's predictable reaction. He held his breath as he eased himself away carefully, and slid out from under the covers, almost treading on Billy as he got out.

The bathroom was free and he turned the shower on full force, his heart hammering in his chest. He lathered himself up quickly, and as his hands passed over the swell of his hobbit's belly, he looked down, and the corners of his mouth quirked up in a tiny grin. It didn't bother him as much as it used to, and that was all due to Elijah.

Not too long ago, they'd been listening to John go on about how successful these movies were going to be, until they'd half believed it themselves. Later that day, in wardrobe, Elijah had looked at their reflections in the full-length mirror and laughed. "Wouldn't it be cool, Seanie, if a hundred years from now, people will still be watching these films and seeing us?" He'd giggled and then sobered suddenly. "That'd be like real immortality, you know?"

Sean had looked at himself as Sam, pudgy and lumpen, and at Elijah, made up as the innocent Frodo, slim and glowing, so beautiful, and he had made a face and turned away. He didn't always feel this way, but that day he'd been feeling the extra thirty pounds and the heaviness weighed on his spirits.

With the uncanny insight that he sometimes showed, Elijah had immediately grasped his mood and had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back to face the mirror. "Sean," he had said softly. "When this is gone," and he touched his finger to Sean's belly in the mirror, "and this is dust," and he touched his face, "Samwise Gamgee will live on. Sam is the best of what you are, Sean. He is decency, devotion, courage, and so much love." Elijah'd met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. "The best of what you are is beautiful, Sean. And that's what will live forever."

Sean closed his eyes, lost in the memory, and his soapy hands slid down to grasp the hardness of his cock. He could still smell Elijah, and the scent called up images that scrolled across the surface of his mind. He stroked himself slickly, imagining the glorious eyes, filled with love, the parted lips, swollen with need, and his mouth gaped in a silent cry as his semen splashed against the tiled wall and slid down to mingle with the water and disappear.

~~~~~

Dr. Susan Irwin looked at the anxious faces arrayed in front of her. Elijah was curled up in the armchair, his head held at a stiff angle. He had insisted on showering without any help, and his face was still pale from the pain of his stubborn insistence. Sean sat beside him on the floor, and his body language spoke volumes.

"I had Elijah's blood work-up sent to me," she began. "No sign of drugs or alcohol in his bloodstream - " she paused as Sean let out an incoherent sound of protest, and smiled sympathetically. "I won't demean the rest of you by asking for samples either." She looked around the group again, mentally ordering her thoughts.

"Peter told me about the dreams, and that they still continue, and he also assured me that this isn't one of your pranks." She looked sternly at the younger hobbits. "If I hadn't seen the state you were all in last night, I might not have believed him even then. This must be one for the psych journals - quite unprecedented, as far as I know. And I - " and she took a deep breath, "don't know anything. I'm a doctor of the body, not of the mind; so I'm sending you to a specialist. His name is Dr. Robert Dowling, and he was one of my professors in University; one of the best in his field - he holds the chair of Psychology at Victoria U. You can trust him implicitly." She consulted a piece of paper briefly and continued, "Good thing he's a fan of the books too, and has agreed to give up his Sunday to see you. I've made appointments tomorrow for Elijah, Sean, Dom, Billy, Orlando, and Viggo."

"Hey!" Billy protested. "Why me and Vig? All right, so we've had weird dreams too, but nothing like theirs!"

"I can't tell you why right now," the doctor said calmly, "but I've told Rob a little of what I know, and he was adamant that he see all six of you." She shrugged. "It's up to you, you know. We can't force you to go."

"Billy..." Elijah said pleadingly.

Billy subsided, muttering, "Never been to a headshrinker yet. I like me the way I am!"

Dr. Irwin smiled in relief. "Good - I'll confirm the appointments then." She smirked, "Rob doesn't know what a treat he's in for - he's gonna owe _me_ after this!"

Sean stared at her gleeful face and a tremor of unease slid up his spine.

~~~~~

_"I can't believe this! You're going to do what?" Sean was on his feet, his face scarlet. The others sat frozen in their chairs, stunned speechless.  
_

Dr. Dowling had met them at the door, and they saw a vigorous man in his late fifties, dressed in casual clothing. Well, it was Sunday, after all. His eyes were kind, and the laughter creases at their corners reassured them. The doctor's consulting rooms were well appointed and spacious, as befitted someone of his prominence, and one wall was papered with framed diplomas. The amount of alphabet soup depicted was decidedly impressive.

Introductions had been made, forms filled out and confidentiality agreements signed, at the doctor's insistence. He said wryly that they were as much for his own good as theirs. Then he had talked to them one by one and questioned them about the Dream, followed by penetrating questions that touched upon their families, their work before 'Rings' and various events in their lives. It was an hour and a half before they were all done, and they were all feeling restive. Dr. Dowling assembled them in the outer office again and looked at them searchingly.

"Can I take it that all of you want to know why you've been having this particular nightmare?" he asked without preamble. "It will stop, you know. It may stop tomorrow, or it may take months to go away entirely. It all depends on the cause of it. I know Mr. Jackson wants it stopped yesterday, but you still have a choice." He paused, and repeated, "Do you want to know?"

They had glanced at each other uncertainly and then back at him.

"I want to know," Viggo said with certainty.

They had murmured their agreement, Billy and Sean lagging far behind the others. Sean didn't like this at all. He had so many issues buried deep within his psyche; from his troubled childhood, his uncertain parentage, and his struggle for normalcy. And then there was his latest aberration - no - he didn't like this one bit.

The doctor leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and continued, "I asked to see all six of you because I believe that all your dreams have a common origin. I - do not believe in coincidence. Every event has a cause, and so does every dream, whether you remember it or not. We need to find out what has triggered yours." He paused for a moment, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Dr. Irwin didn't tell you this, because I asked her not to. I have another specialty, one for which I am fully qualified - celebrated, even. I am a licensed hypnotherapist, and I use the discipline of hypnosis in my practice."

Their eyes had widened and someone snorted audibly. The doctor smiled gently.

"Why are you surprised?" he'd asked placidly. "It's not uncommon in psychiatry. In a way, none of you are strangers to it - you use a form of self-hypnosis in your work, every day." He looked keenly at Elijah, his brows raised. "When you play Frodo, are you not Frodo completely? Do you not feel his emotions; react as he would react? You actors speak so easily of 'owning your characters', of being 'submerged' in them. And so you are, in truth."

Elijah's eyes had flickered to Sean reflexively, before he caught himself and transferred his gaze to his clasped hands. A rosy flush stained the translucent skin, and a tiny smile played around the corners of his mouth. Sean had stared at the smile, and felt his own face redden.

Dr. Dowling regarded the two with amusement, and continued in a lecturing tone: "Hypnosis is defined scientifically as an artificially induced state of relaxation and concentration in which deeper parts of the mind become more accessible." He'd laughed and added, "Drier than the mumbo-jumbo that you hear from stage magicians, isn't it? We use it clinically to reduce reaction to pain, to promote free association, and other things."

Orli and Dom had been openly fascinated; they'd leaned forward in their chairs, their eyes gleaming. Elijah gnawed absently at his ragged nails, his eyes riveted on the doctor's face. Billy and Viggo leaned back, their faces neutral, in the universal pose of 'come on, convince me'; and Sean was so tensed up that he fancied he could hear his spine creaking, and he could feel a cramp growing in his lower back.

"You will be good subjects, by the way," the doctor added. "Don't be misled by the popular misconception that only people of moderate or low intelligence can be hypnotized. That is a fallacy - they are the hardest. The best are individuals who have trained memories, who are used to concentrating for long periods of time. People like you." He paused to drink from the glass of water at his side. "But I digress. Hypnosis will only be a small part of what I propose. I don't think we will find any answers in your present lives; the situation is too unusual for that." He paused and leaned forward, calm and sure. "In this case, with your consent, I propose to attempt a past-life regression with each one of you."

****

They sat frozen in their seats, except for Sean, who had gone ballistic - so unusual for him. Dr. Dowling said quietly, "I gather some of you know what a 'past life regression' means. For those of you who don't, I am going to attempt to take you backward, before this present life, to see if you have had any lives before this that are impinging on the life you are living now. Whether you believe it or not, the results of such a foray are well-documented." He rose from his chair and looked them searchingly. "I will leave you to decide. One more thing - it has to be all of you or none. If there is one hold-out, I will not do it - it would be useless. Then we will have to try less certain, more conventional means."

With that, he left. Sean stared at the door, his fists clenched, fighting down the anger that threatened to overwhelm him. It had been a long, long time since he had learned to manage that anger, to harness it and tame it. Now it roiled in him again. Why? He forced himself to think, coldly and dispassionately. _You are afraid. What are you afraid of, Sean? What do you fear?_

The first shock passed and a babble of voices filled the room.

"Brilliant! Let's do it!" That was Dom, who strongly believed in reincarnation anyway, and was eager to test his beliefs.

The others stared at him blankly and returned to their heated debate. Sean stared out the window, his body stiff and unyielding. Elijah watched him covertly, a worried frown on his face.

Viggo finally raised his hand. "It's part of the journey," he said softly. "I'm willing to chance it. I may learn something, who knows?" he shrugged. "But I won't know unless I try."

Orli glanced quickly at him. "Well, an elf can't be outdone by some smelly human - and I won't be left out of anything." He shivered and muttered, "This is gonna be like bungee-jumping, only scarier."

"I'm sure I've got nothing to be ashamed of - in this or any other life," Billy said soberly. His face brightened, "Anyway, if I did, wouldn't I be a pig or some kind of animal by now?" He paused, frowned and said sheepishly, "Uh, that's the Hindus, right? Sorry. Um -- whatever." The others laughed nervously. He turned to Elijah and asked, "What about you, Lij? You need this the most - whatever it is."

"I'm in," Elijah said shortly, his eyes still fixed on the figure by the window. Billy followed his gaze and shrugged. "Sean?" he called softly.

Sean turned and faced them, his fisted hands hidden behind his back. "There's no such thing as reincarnation," he said tightly. "This is - just wrong. It won't work."

"How do you know that," Viggo said mildly. "If you won't even try?"

Elijah said nothing. He glanced away and his hand came up to adjust the sling around his neck. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Well, that's that, then. Better call the doctor back and tell him." The rest stared at him, puzzled by his ready capitulation. Elijah met Sean's eyes and smiled, "It's okay - the doctor'll find some other way."

"But - the doctor said..." Elijah looked at him and Dom snapped his mouth shut.

Elijah got up stiffly and walked toward the inner door. He raised his right hand to knock, winced, and substituted his left. Dr. Dowling answered the door and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"What have you decided?" he asked.

Elijah opened his mouth, then shut it as a hand came down on his good shoulder.

"We'll do it." Sean's voice was rough and tight with tension.

The doctor nodded and moved past them into the room. Elijah sighed and sagged against Sean tiredly, and a strong arm supported him.

"You play dirty, Frodo." Sean's whisper wafted into his ear and Elijah shivered. He raised his eyes and Sean caught his breath at the pain in them.

"I'm sorry, Seanie. Shouldn't have done it." He took a deep breath. "If you really don't want to, we can still..."

"No. It's okay." Sean's smile chased away the shadows, and his voice was soft and accepting. "I just had to be reminded of what really matters most, that's all."

Dr. Dowling consulted his notes. "We'll do this in alphabetical order," he decided, and smiled at Elijah's heartfelt groan. "The first three today, and the rest tomorrow. I've cleared my schedule - we won't be interrupted - and I want to see all of you after Elijah's session, all right?" He considered for a moment. "I'll take Sean now, and the rest of you can go grab something to eat - it's almost midday, and I don't know how long this will take."

"I'm staying," Elijah said immediately. "I'm not hungry anyway."

The others said their goodbyes and made ready to leave. Dr. Dowling held up a restraining hand and said, "There's one more thing - please do not discuss amongst yourselves the results of each other's sessions. Not until all of you are done, and we have debriefed. This is important. Do I have your word?"

They all muttered assent and Sean moved toward the inner room in the doctor's wake. He turned at the door and held Elijah's eyes for a moment, then the door closed gently and he was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Sean eyed the leather couch with misgiving. Shit - he had thought that he was through with psychiatrists and - surprise! Here he was again. He licked his lips nervously; his mouth was as dry as an old bone, and his heart thudded uneasily against his ribs. He glanced at the doctor and raised his brows in silent query, striving desperately for an air of nonchalance.

Dr. Dowling smiled reassuringly and nodded toward the recliner sitting beside the couch. "Will you be more comfortable there, Sean?" he asked gently.

Sean moved toward the chair and seated himself gingerly. "Yes, I would prefer this, please."

"Very good. Now set yourself at ease, and we can begin." The doctor set a compact digital recorder down on the end table, drew up a chair and sat down, knee to knee with his patient, his notebook on his lap. Sean stared at the device and his forehead creased in a frown of dismay.

"This is the only recording device in this room," the doctor said briskly. "And when you leave, the record file will go with you. It is yours to keep or destroy as you see fit, although keeping it would be a good idea. If you feel that you need to talk further, you wouldn't have to go through this all over again - although you will remember everything that happens. Is this agreeable to you?"

Sean shrugged, feigning indifference, but his knuckles whitened as his hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

"Very well," Dr. Dowling said easily. "Now, the most important thing is to have you relax. So, let's make sure you're quite comfortable, all right? Close your eyes, Sean. Take a deep breath and let it all out slowly - as far as you can. Take your hands off the armrests and lay them in your lap...yes...that's right.

"Now we'll run through a simple breathing exercise," he continued. "Take a deep breath, slowly, hold it for a count of five - and then let it out slowly, for a count of five. Feel the tension drain out of your body as you exhale. Yes - that's it. Now, let's do it together - in for five - hold for five - out for five...good."

His voice took on a soothing cadence as he repeated the count. Sean obeyed, but his eyelids kept flickering open to see what the doctor was doing. Dr. Dowling noted his distraction and took from his pocket an old-fashioned gold watch and chain.

"You're doing fine," he murmured. "Open your eyes, Sean - and focus on this watch. It's nothing special, just an ordinary timepiece." The doctor moved his hand and the watch started spinning slowly. "I'd like you to focus your eyes on it - it will help you relax. It will distract your conscious mind. Watch it spin. See how it catches the light. See how the light reflects off it. Hear it ticking - a soothing sound, Sean, a pleasant sound. You have all the time in the world. Time is slowing down - slowing down...

"Now you find yourself growing more and more comfortable - more and more relaxed. You are starting to feel drowsy - your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Imagine yourself as a leaf, floating on the surface of a still pool. It is very peaceful there; soft grass lines the verge, and the branches of the trees reach gracefully over the water. Let your eyes close - immerse yourself in the tranquility of the pool. You are warm, and safe, and secure. So relaxed and comfortable. Your thoughts are slowing down - it's too much effort to think at all. Let it all go - enjoy the peace...relax..."

The doctor's voice droned on, soothing in its measured rhythm. Slowly, Sean's body sank deeper into the recliner, and as the doctor watched, some of the lines of tension melted from his face. He looked younger, less care-worn and subtly content. His hands lay on his lap, upturned, fingers curling inward gently, and his head lay easily against the headrest, the tendons of his neck lax and loose.

The doctor nodded slowly, satisfied. He knew Sean had been the most reluctant of the six, and was somewhat startled to find him slipping into trance so easily. He kept up the droning cadence of his voice and leaning forward, grasped a wrist gently, and lifted it into the air. Sean's arm came up without resistance, and when Doctor Dowling let go, it remained suspended in perfect catalepsy. Wherever the doctor moved it, it remained there, unmoving, steady. This was something that Sean could not have anticipated, and impossible to fake. He returned the arm to its proper place, ran his hand down it until it relaxed, and then let his voice die away.

"Excellent!" he said approvingly. "Sean, can you hear me clearly?"

"Yes..." The word was a mere thread of sound.

"Good. Now, you're fully relaxed and in trance, but you will always be aware of who you are and of your surroundings. That security and safety will stay with you, whatever happens, and wherever we go from here. Remember, I will be at your side all the way. Are you ready?"

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Sean's face, indicative of his ambivalence toward the whole idea. After a moment, though, he nodded dreamily in assent.

Doctor Dowling smiled. Then he leaned forward and said, "But first, let's take out some insurance..."

~~~~~

Sean drifted in the midst of a haze of pearly luminescence; his body weightless, his senses in abeyance. Before him, tendrils of mist shaped themselves into the semblance of a tunnel filled with light. He heard a voice, calm and steady, urging him onward, and he obeyed hesitantly.

"Sean - I want you to imagine time as the pages of a calendar that hangs in front of you. Each page you tear off the calendar is a year taken off your life. As you tear the pages off, you become younger and younger and younger. Continue doing this until I tell you to stop. You will relive memories, but don't dwell on them. We may have a long way to go. Start tearing the pages off now."

As he moved down the tunnel, Sean began to see images flash by. He saw Ally being born, relived his wedding day; images of his days at university, of Mac and his father laughing - and then his perspective changed, and he was looking up - at his mother. The images were all of her now - in all her mercurial moods; memories of a raised voice, thick with venom, of a hand raised to strike. He shrank back in the chair, whimpering...

The voice whispered in his ear, smooth as silk, and as strong, "Move past the memories, Sean - they cannot hurt you now. See the calendar before you - each page torn off is now a decade off your life. The pages fly off now - ten - twenty - - fifty... Where are you now, Sean?"

"I am...nowhere..."

"Go farther back - go back another fifty years. Where are you now?"

"...a battlefield...can't tell where... dying..." Sean's head moved restlessly from side to side.

"It's all right, Sean. Remember, these lives are past and spent. They cannot harm you. Go back farther - we look for fire, Sean. Go back..."

_Fire_

The pages flew off the calendar in a blur of motion. Images rushed by, passing too swiftly to see or comprehend. A hundred years - two hundred years swept past. Then ahead, the mists lit up with a sullen, reddish glow - and Sean dived toward the light, impelled by a force he couldn't resist. The guide's voice broke in and went unheeded - "Slow down, Sean! You're going too fast! Slow down!"

~~~~~

Elijah looked up with a frown, and cocked his head, listening. He could've sworn he'd heard a crash coming from the inner room. The magazine slid to the floor as he jumped to his feet and hurried to the door; he laid his ear against the smooth wood and his eyes widened in consternation. He didn't feel the pain in his shoulder as he wrenched the door open and burst into the room.

Sean lay twisted on a recliner, his bare arms shielding his face, his fingers clawing the air. All Elijah could see of his face was the red wound of his gaping mouth; all he could hear were the sounds that issued from it; keening gasps of agony and fear; and words - almost unintelligible, "...no...no...Ned...no..."

"...the fuck! " Elijah yelled. "What are you doing to him?"

Dr. Dowling's head jerked around. "Help me!" he panted. "Got to get his arms away from his face! Can't do it - need a free hand - quickly!" Sean's arms showed red welts where the doctor's nails had scratched them as he tried to pull them back.

Elijah didn't hesitate. Sean's body felt rock hard against his thighs as he threw himself on his friend and wrapped his hands around a muscled arm.

"Seanie! Please - it's me, Lijah!" he pleaded, although he didn't know if Sean could hear him. "Sean - relax! It's all right - I'm here!"

He felt the body under him jerk and the arm he was hanging on to give a little. He hauled on it with all his might and the arm loosened further. Quick as a striking snake, the doctor's hand darted in and he tapped Sean's exposed forehead with a forefinger - right between the eyebrows.

The results of the little tap were nothing short of amazing. Sean's body relaxed abruptly - it was as if a spring, wound past its breaking point, had snapped. The arm Elijah clung to went slack, and he lost his balance, tumbling backwards and landing at Sean's feet with a yelp of pain.

"Wha - what -" he stuttered, utterly disoriented.

The doctor ignored him - he had Sean's wrist in his hand and was taking his pulse with a frown of concentration. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and extended a hand to help Elijah up.

"That was my insurance - a post-hypnotic suggestion," he said. "Don't worry," he added, as Elijah took a menacing step forward, "He's merely deeply asleep." The doctor bent to retrieve his notebook and pen from the floor and right the overturned chair.

"It's too traumatic for him," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Need to get past the fire...what to do..." He took a turn around the room, deep in thought. Elijah moved to Sean's side and looked down on his sleeping face curiously. He'd never seen Sean truly at rest before. Even napping on the set, he had this *edge* to him - this hair-trigger half-awareness. He smiled wryly as he smoothed a glossy curl back from the high forehead. _He looks so peaceful_, he thought. _So young and defenseless._

Dr. Dowling returned and Elijah looked up warily. "I'm not leaving until I know he'll be all right," he said mulishly. "You needed me before - and you might again. I'm not taking any chances."

The doctor looked at him oddly. "Why didn't you go with the others, Elijah? Why did you stay?"

Elijah shrugged, "I dunno - I just had this feeling, y'know?" He looked down at the sleeping man. "He always takes care of me - of all of us," he said softly. "He's always there when I need him - every time. I guess I stayed because he really didn't want to do this - and I wanted to be here. Just in case that - for once, he might need me."

"It was a timely thought. Thank you," the doctor responded, smiling. "Now, I must ask you to sit over near the door. I'm going to try something. Promise me that you will not interfere or make a sound unless I ask; and that you leave when I tell you to, all right?"

The doctor seated himself and took a deep breath. Then he leaned forward and tapped Sean's forehead in the exact same spot. Sean's breathing deepened imperceptibly and he shifted a little in the chair.

"Sean, can you hear me?"

"Yes..."

"You are at the threshold of the life you seek," he continued. "Now - I want you to imagine that you hold a video camera in your hand. Imagine that you are filming a scene in a movie. You, as the director, are apart, an observer. Your finger is poised over the pause button - you can stop the action anytime you wish. Are you ready?" Sean nodded dreamily. "Move forward slowly. Remember that I am with you."

The red-tinged mists loomed ahead. As Sean approached, he could feel the heat of the fire warming his face. The voice assured him, "The fire is an illusion, Sean, a special effect. Pass through to the other side, enter your life and see what you must see."

Elijah stiffened in his chair at the doctor's words. He saw Sean's forehead furrow in concentration, saw the change that came over his face. Even with his eyes closed, Sean's face was alight with an utter, unimaginable joy. Then he smiled, a smile of such tenderness, that Elijah felt tears start to his eyes.

"Ned...my love..."

Elijah gasped.

The doctor turned, startled. He had forgotten about Elijah. He jerked his head toward the door and frowned forbiddingly when Elijah hesitated. They held each other's eyes for a long moment, then the young man nodded and left, closing the door silently behind him.

Dr. Dowling turned back to his patient. "You need to go back a little farther, Sean, five years or so. You need to understand."

The smile died from Sean's face and he moaned in protest.

"We will come back to this moment, Sean. I promise you. Go back now."

"I...yes..."

"Do you speak English in this life?" Sean nodded. "Good. What year is it?"

"It is the fourteenth year in the reign of Good Queen Bess, may God save her."

The doctor's brows rose to his hairline. Sean's voice had changed - it was more resonant, fuller, and there was a different cadence to it.

"Who are you in this life?"

"I am a player, one Sean Hastings, a member of Lord Osborne's Company."

"Tell me...."

~~~~~

Elijah stared at the closed door miserably. Sean's face trembled behind his eyelids, burned into his memory; the sweetness of his smile, the blinding joy. He felt unsettled and resentful, and...angry. A hot tide of color rose beneath his skin. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he was jealous - of a phantom from a life long past. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit- that he wanted that light that lit Sean's face for himself, that tender smile for him alone.

And Elijah was nothing if not honest.

~~~~~

_Four hundred and thirty-odd years_, the doctor mused silently as he watched them file into the room. _That long ago - and if I'm not mistaken, nothing has really changed_. He thought of Charles Darwin and natural selection and suppressed a wry grin. The serious faces arrayed in front of him wouldn't appreciate the humor in the situation at all.

"All right," he began. "This is going to be a kind of brief de-briefing, and I am going to give you my analysis of the situation as I see it. Do all of you remember what transpired during your sessions?"

Short nods all around. None of the six people in the room with him seemed to want to look at each other. The easy camaraderie of before was absent, and there was an air of tension and constraint in the room.

"Sean, would you start? Tell us who you were," Dr. Dowling invited, his voice calm and quiet.

~~~

Sean's eyes were on his clasped hands and his voice shook. "I - I was an actor, a stage actor, and my name was Sean Hastings. I - um - I belonged to this repertory company, 'Lord Osborne's Men'." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I lived during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I."

_"It was my fault that Ned died, you know. My fault that he suffered so."_

"Why would you think that, Sean?"

"I had the sight. It was my curse - to know how he would die. I sent Owen and Dominick away - I saved them from the fire, but him...I could not save. And he was my life..."

"You died with him, Sean. You could have saved yourself. Why?"

"I was going to kill him - did you know? T'would have been so simple, so easy - to place my hand over his mouth and stop his breath. I did not want him to suffer, you see. But I could not do it. I had murder in my heart, but when I looked into his eyes - I saw such trust, such love in them. So I stayed, as I had always planned to do - and my beloved did not die alone."

"It was his time, Sean. It was his fate. Do not blame yourself. Listen to me, Sean..."

~~~

Orli flinched and looked up. "Oh. Am I next?" He cleared his throat and avoided the others' eyes. "I was a Welshman - and my name was Owen Archer." A soft sound of amusement escaped Viggo's lips and Orli smiled a little. "Yeah. Funny, isn't it. I was a member of Lord Osborne's Company too. A lowly apprentice."

_"Orlando, in your dream, the heat of the fire drives you back. Take up the video camera - know that the fire is merely an effect, an illusion. It cannot harm you. Go through the fire and find what you seek."_

"Martyn..."

"Yes. Go to him, Orlando. This is what you wanted - to be with him at the end. You can do it now."

"He still breathes..."

"He knows that you are here. It comforts him. See, Orlando, he smiles..."

"I'm not Orlando - I am Owen...and I want to stay. I promised, look you. I vowed to die with my love. Damn Sean - damn him to hell for saving me..."

"You are both, Orlando and Owen - you are one soul. Your death will not make Martyn live again. Resist the temptation, Orlando, and forgive Sean - he loved you too, and he meant well."

~~~

Billy straightened in his chair and folded his hands primly in his lap. He looked outwardly calm, but the whiteness of his knuckles betrayed him. "I was a Scotsman, and a member of the same company as theirs." He nodded toward Sean and Orli. "My name was William Scot, but they called me Will."

_"He was such a bonny lad, ye ken. They were all family to me, but he was special. He could always shake me from the doldrums; always make me laugh. And his eyes - ye canna know - they were the grey of a stormy sky, and the silver of the ring he gave me. For friendship, he said. Friendship forever, I vowed to him._

"I never told him I loved him. I was brought up Calvinist, you see, a stern faith, and joyless. I feared to see the loathing and disgust in those eyes - so I held my peace, and gloried in his amity. And at the end, why should I torment him with my love? He had much to bear, and I spared him more..."

"This unrequited love - who was he, Billy?"

"I loved...Dominick..."

~~~

Dom sprawled in his chair, looking relaxed and at ease. He raised an eyebrow and smiled mirthlessly. "Looks like everyone was one big, happy family in this 'other life', doesn't it? It boggles the mind, it does." A muscle jumped in the long jaw. "May as well add my bit, then. Dominick Merriman was my name - a mouthful, to be sure. I was London-born and bred. Same troupe, same era."

_"I miss him so. He was a delight to be with, was my Will. He sang like a nightingale, you know - and his voice was honey-smooth. And a master of his craft - only John could match him - no one else came close, least of all myself. He was the brother of my heart, and I loved him well."_

"Do you feel the need to go beyond the fire, Dom?"

"Nay. I wanted him too, you see. He was beautiful, was Ned, and so easy to love. But he belonged to Sean, heart and soul, and was not for me. Whether it was love or lust I felt for him, I know not - but I do not want to watch him die. And Sean - I always wondered - and he sent us away, saved us from the fire. So I was certain - somehow he knew. He did not try to save himself, did he?"

"No - no, they died together. How did you die, Dom?"

"Five years more I lived, if you can call it that. I had lost my family, and the two I loved the most - and plague came round again, and... I would that I had died with them."

~~~

Viggo spoke up quietly in that soft, breathy voice of his, surprising from a man his size. "I was Martyn Sonne in that other life - a playwright, and a member of Lord Osborne's Men."

_Viggo's voice died away, and his breathing quickened. Dr. Dowling sensed a movement, and looked down at the actor's hands. They were moving, the left hand splayed open, the right hand curled around some imagined object - not aimless, but with palpable purpose. He looked up at Viggo's face - it was still, and his eyes were shut. The doctor stood up quickly and hurried to his desk._

He lifted the groping hand and slid the heavy pad of drawing paper under it. Then he placed the pencil in the curve of the right hand and sat back, watching intently. Viggo's eyes didn't open, but the pencil moved across the paper, sure and steady. With a few deft strokes, a face appeared - a laughing, beardless face, dark eyes staring out from under level brows, crowned by a shock of unruly hair - a young face. The pencil stopped, faltered, and marked the paper - the doctor moved it away gently. Viggo's left hand wandered over the drawing, smudging the penciled lines, and a tender smile lit his face.

"Owen..." he said softly. "Angel..."

~~~

Elijah rubbed the tender inside of his arm absently. Why the fuck was it sore? He looked down at the reddish mark and looked up with a frown. The doctor met his accusing glare blandly and nodded, smiling - and turned his hands up. His turn.

Sean's eyes met his across the half-circle of his mates and he held them for a long moment. Then he dropped his eyes and said dully, "My name was Edward Woodrose. An apprentice. They," with a nod of his head toward the others, "called me Ned."

_The doctor frowned. Elijah hadn't responded to the pinch he had given, but still he seemed too tense to be in real trance. He opened his mouth to halt the process, and stopped at the sound of the soft voice._

"A lie. I lived a lie."

"What do you mean, Elijah?"

"I was no innocent - that rape that Sean saved me from was not the first. Only the first that did not succeed. Two years I endured - the youngest member of a wandering troupe - a plaything, a toy. I hated my face, did you know? I would have marred it if I could - but it was my only wherewithal, my livelihood.

"I was fortunate - I won free, and thought that I had entered heaven. I found love, and my beloved loved me for myself, tarnished though I was. And I - I kept silent, and put my old life behind me. Or so I thought. I loved him so - my Sean, but I could never rest, you see. The stains would never wash away - I was unworthy of him; and I was certain that someday he would see me for what I was, and turn away."

"He chose to die with you, Elijah. Was that not proof of his true love?"

"No...Yes... I do not know! He died for a lie..."

~~~~~

Dr. Dowling looked up and cleared his throat. "Before I start, I believe you all should see this." He handed a large sheet of thick paper to Sean, and sat back, watching his face intently. Sean stared down at it, and a shudder seemed to go through him. He blinked back tears and passed it to Orli brusquely.

Orli took it and exclaimed in surprise, "Vigs! Did you do this?"

"Yes, I suppose I did." Viggo admitted, smiling slightly.

Bill and Dom craned their necks to see. "Bloody hell! Look, it's all of us - oh - and John too! Viggo, could you have copies made?" Billy asked.

Dom's eyes narrowed in speculation. "Of the seven in the Company, six are in this room. I wonder..."

"I wondered too," Viggo said quietly.

"Could I see that?" Elijah asked, and Billy handed the sketch to him. He studied it for a minute and then looked up at Sean, his face blank and closed. Sean met his gaze and a frisson of unease sped up his spine. Something was wrong, and he couldn't tell what it was. The sapphire eyes bored into him -

The eyes of a lover - the face of a stranger.

~~~

"The memories may grow stronger over the next few weeks, but will eventually fade. It is the brain's self-defense mechanism - you are not meant to remember lives before this one." Dr. Dowling had his lecturing voice on. "As to the nightmares, if I have done my work right, they will not return. I say 'if', mind you," he qualified, at the sigh of relief that echoed through the room. "There is really no precedent for this situation, you know.

"One of the six of you has the psychic gift of empathy, the projection type." He held up his hand at the expected chorus of protest. "Come on, after all that has happened here, you still deny it? Empathy is the most common of what we call 'telepathic gifts'. Some actors have it, in varying degrees. Through it, you can gauge the responsiveness, the mood of the audience; with it, you can project the emotions you wish them to feel. You do not consciously use it - it is reflexive, and not under your control. However.

"Something has awakened it in one of you. Who it is, is not important now. It isn't very strong, and can only manifest when the public mind, the conscious mind is out of the way, asleep. Hence the nightmares. And why the six of you? Because you have a bond between you, one that stretches over more than one lifetime, a soul-bond, if you will.

"Memories of that past life were triggered in someone. Perhaps in that person, empathy lay dormant; perhaps it was an adjunct of those memories." Dr. Dowling fell silent for a moment. Nobody stirred. "So many ifs, so many maybes," he sighed resignedly. He roused himself, "This analysis is arguably a quick and dirty one, but it rings true. I will have to see you all again - a week from today. I will let you know your individual schedules - and if you need to talk before then, call me - at any time of the day or night." He smiled tightly. "For this, I will make house calls."

~~~~~

"Sean, we have to talk."

Sean turned, his hand on the doorknob, and nodded warily. Dinner had been a subdued affair, and he couldn't recall what he had eaten - it could have been ashes for all the taste it had. He fumbled his key card into the slot, and felt a cramp seize his belly in anticipation. Elijah followed him into the room and shut the door behind him.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he said to Sean's tense back. "The nightmares came from you, didn't they? Sean?" Sean ducked his head and didn't move.

"No wonder I had a harder time of it - I was re-living your death as well as mine, wasn't I?" Elijah walked up to the silent figure and stared at Sean broodingly.

Sean turned at his words, and something like relief lit his face. "I'm sorry, Lij. It does look like it was my fault, doesn't it?" He said pleadingly, "You know I'd never knowingly harm you - never hurt you! You do know that, don't you? Is this what's bugging you? Why you've been so strange all night?"

Elijah smiled back, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course I know it, Sam. You couldn't harm anyone if you tried. No - " his eyes wavered and dropped. "That wasn't what I wanted to talk about."

He jammed his hands roughly into his pockets, and Sean winced. Not a good sign at all. Elijah tended to talk with his hands, and memories of funny tales, jokes, and confidences, orchestrated by waving hands and jabbing fingers, were as much a part of him as his amazing eyes. Trapping those expressive digits in a prison of denim meant one thing only - he had raised his barriers against Sean.

"You're my best friend, you know," he said quietly. "Maybe the best I've ever had. Nobody knows me better - not Hannah, not Mom - nobody. I don't want to lose that, Sean." He shook his head when Sean attempted to speak, and Sean subsided, his heart thumping. "No. Don't interrupt. I need to get this out - now."

"I want you. And I know you want me." The bald, uncompromising words made Sean gasp softly. Elijah smiled mirthlessly, "'Want' is a pretty lame word for what we feel, isn't it? The heart-ache that keeps me awake at night, the way I need you near me, the way I feel so safe when you put your arms around me.

"So - if 'want' doesn't quite cut it - shall we try the word 'love' then?

"But Seanie," his tongue curled around the name, savoring it, "what if the love isn't real? Maybe it's you that has this 'empathy' thing - maybe what I feel is what _you_ want me to feel. What if you don't realize what you're doing? What then?"

Elijah's voice was rising, and he stopped abruptly. He wet dry lips with a flick of his tongue and continued in a near-whisper. "Sean, what if it's just you wanting Ned back - or me wanting that other Sean back too? You're married - you have a great career, a wonderful family. Too many 'what-ifs' to build a life on, Sean, too many to ruin a life for."

They stared at each other, their eyes wide and dark. The minutes ticked away, and still Sean didn't argue, didn't speak. Finally Elijah couldn't stand it.

"Sean - say something!"

"What is there to say?" There was a flat quality to Sean's voice, as if the words were forced through dead air. "You're right, anyway."

"Are we still okay? Do you hate me now?" Elijah heard the frantic pleading in his own voice and quailed.

"I'll never hate you, Lij." Sean's voice was muffled, and then he raised his eyes and a spark jumped in them. "Elijah - may I kiss you? Just this once?"

Elijah looked at him sadly, "I don't think that's a good idea, Sean."

"Please," Sean whispered.

Elijah couldn't withstand the pleading in the hazel eyes. He nodded resignedly and moved closer.

"Okay - then. Just this once."

Their lips met, softly, tentatively, and Sean let out a shuddering sigh. Elijah took an instinctive breath and the air that he drew in was warm from Sean's body. They shivered at the delicate intimacy, and Sean's hand came up to cup Elijah's neck and draw him closer. His thumb traced the outline of the delicate jaw with practiced precision, and the hesitant kiss evolved into something desperate, searing and oh, so sweet, and

Elijah wrenched himself away and backed toward the door.

He eyes burned as he whispered, "I told you it was a bad idea - you want Ned, and he's dead. I'm not him, Sean, and I can't stand it - I can't."

And he was gone.


	9. Karma

The pounding grew in intensity, and he curled in on himself and tried to ignore it. It wouldn't go away, and his eyes slitted open unwillingly. He frowned, confused by the ant's-eye view he was presented with, and he shook his aching head to clear the sleep from his brain. And then - he wished again for oblivion, for the memories came flooding back, surfing in on a wave of pain.

Elijah...

The agony broke him, all over again - the sense of loss a cruel fist around his heart. He moaned, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet room. As if in response, the pounding resumed, and he sat up, a wild hope in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet, clinging to the door for support, and wrenched it open - and Orlando came barreling through, shouldering him roughly aside. He caught a glimpse of Dom in the hallway, his mouth agape, before slim brown hands fisted into his shirt and slammed him hard against the wall.

"Orli?" he gasped. "What -"

Orlando's face twisted. "It was you, wasn't it Sean," he grated, shaking him for emphasis. "Saving us wasn't a coincidence - you knew the fire was coming, didn't you! You devious...fucking... you stole my death from me! Who gave you the right to play God, huh? What gave you the right to meddle in my life?"

Sean didn't fight back, didn't defend himself. He hung in Orlando's angry grasp, his arms limp, his eyes fixed on his friend's furious face. Orlando glared into them and his breath caught - there was a world of regret in Sean's eyes, and anguish in every line of his face. Suddenly he looked far older than his years.

"Why...Sean? Why?" Orlando's arms gave out and he sagged against Sean, his slender frame shaking as the anger drained away. "I loved him, Sean. You knew I chose to die with him, and you took that choice away. You had no right...no fucking right..."

Trembling arms wrapped around him tentatively and Sean spoke, his voice rough and tight. "Yes, I know that now. I'm sorry, Owen...Orli - god, you can't know how sorry I am. I made so many mistakes, and that wasn't the least of them." He stopped and swallowed hard. "He loved you, Orli. Lijah loved you, and I couldn't save him; but you - you were so young and I thought..." his voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought you would find love again."

Orlando pushed himself away and really looked at Sean for the first time. He saw the rumpled clothing, so unlike Sean, the swollen eyes and the tracks of tears, and realized what he had heard. "You said 'Lijah', Sean - not 'Ned'," he whispered, his eyes widening. "You look... there's something wrong, isn't there?" Sean shook his head and stared past him, resignation warring with trepidation on his face.

Viggo met his eyes from where he leaned against the doorpost. They eyed each other warily, and then Viggo straightened up and stepped into the room. Orlando welcomed him with a smile and glanced back at Sean. "You were wrong about that, you know," he remarked. "The kind of love Martyn and I shared comes only once in a lifetime. What made you think I would settle for less?" He turned toward the door, Viggo's hand light on his shoulder.

"Orli...you lived, didn't you?" Sean's voice held a note of desperation that made Orlando stop and look back. "You didn't..."

"...kill myself?" Orlando finished wryly.

  
_His world was coming apart. He fought against the clutching hands, howling like a madman - screaming Martyn's name. He had almost broken through, and then a crushing pain hit him and he fell, spiraling down into lonely darkness._

And he never came back to the light again.

  
Orlando blinked - and then he reached up to touch Viggo's hand gently. "No," he said, "I didn't kill myself." He regarded Sean somberly for a moment - then went back to him and hugged him hard. "Sorry about that, mate," he whispered. "I overreacted. It wasn't your fault - you meant well."

Dom stood aside to let them pass, and his eyes locked with Orlando's in a questioning look. His friend shook his head imperceptibly, and Dom nodded in agreement. He stood looking after them speculatively, then shrugged and closed the door behind him.

Sean staggered to an armchair and sank into its depths with a groan.

"You too?" he muttered. "It's 'bash Sean day', is it?"

Dom ignored his lame attempt at humor. "Bloody hell, Sean, when I quizzed you about how you always knew where Lij was, I never in my craziest dreams imagined... this." He crossed his arms and leaned against the window sash, staring at Sean moodily. "Does he know?"

Sean's head came up with a jerk. "No! And you're not telling him, either!"

"'Course I won't. D'you think I'm nuts? Does this sensitivity of yours work with everyone?"

"Only with Elijah." Sean admitted gloomily. "Just him, Dom."

"Damn," Dom marveled, his face betraying a trace of relief. "That's the most specific esp I've ever heard of. Uh - how does it work?"

Sean shrugged, "Don't know. I can just sense him sometimes - where he is, if he's nearby. Look - I really don't want to talk about this now, okay?"

"All right. This won't take long." Dom stuffed his hands into his pockets awkwardly, for once unsure of himself. "Lij isn't in his room - I thought he'd spent the night - with you. I guess I was wrong, huh?" Sean said nothing, but an undecipherable expression rippled across his face. "There's something between the two of you though, isn't there? Something…strong. We could all feel it - see it. You weren't exactly subtle, you know?

"I fancy him too, but I'm sure you knew that." He hunched his shoulders defensively. "I could still make him turn to me, you know," he added with unconscious arrogance. "After all, you're married and all; but...after all I've learned, it seems wrong... somehow... profane. So. That's it then. I'll not poach on your preserves, and whatever you decide to do, I hope you'll both be happy; God knows you deserve it." He straightened up and made his way toward the door. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Things are different this time around, Dommie." Sean's voice stopped Dom in his tracks. There was such naked pain in it that he felt like an unwitting voyeur. "I've got a wife and a family, like you said - and Lij... No. It won't work - but thanks anyway." The buzzing of Sean's phone cut through the ensuing silence and he groped in his pocket for it. He stared for a moment at the read-out and then thumbed it on and raised it to his ear. "Ian?... He is? Is he okay?... No - no, I'm fine ... Yeah... thanks... and Ian? Make him rest that shoulder and - please...take care of him for me."

He turned the phone off and looked up at Dom. "Lijah's passed out on Ian's couch. He'll look after him." Dom had been giving him the once-over while he was on the phone and now frowned worriedly. "Orli's right. You look like hell, mate! Are you sure _you're_ all right?"

"I'm fine!" Sean replied testily.

And in the back of his mind, a voice mocked him:

_Liar_, it said.

~~~~~

Sir Ian replaced the receiver and regarded the slight form sprawled among the cushions of the couch. He hadn't been best pleased to find a woebegone hobbit on his doorstep at four in the morning. He had thought that he was past surprise - he'd seen so much in his life; had drunk the wine of excess, and thought himself jaded, old. Now Elijah's story opened up new possibilities, amazing new worlds - so he suspended disbelief and let Elijah talk.

His uninvited guest refused all his offers of comfort food and curled up on the couch, dejected and miserable. The shadows under his eyes and the smudge of tears did nothing to detract from his beauty. Ian resisted the urge to offer more intangible comfort, settled himself into an armchair and composed himself to listen.

"Predestination, Ian. Don't look so surprised. I was home-schooled, remember? I've always hated that idea, you know? That you don't have any control over where life leads you. Control. Never had any. Choices. Didn't have that either. Responsibility kinda takes that away, you see. Thought that at least, over whom I wanted, over whom I loved, I'd have some say. Fuckitall. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

"What'll I do, Ian? I can't get him out of my head - out of my...heart. He's been in there from the first, and he won't leave. I can't make him leave. I don't know if I want him to. He's so much a part of me now. But he wants Ned, and I want him - or I think I do. How much of what I feel is mine? How can I know for sure? How can he prove different? Oh god! I'm so confused.

"Ian? I'm gay, aren't I?"

Ian regarded him sadly. "Does it matter so much, Elijah?"

"I guess not - and it's too late to change anyway. It's just," and his voice was rich with derision, "I'm such a fucking romantic, you know? I went looking for love, and ended up with this...this...mess."

"Be careful what you wish for - you might get it," Ian quoted acidly. "Young man, you don't look for love; love finds you - often when it's most inconvenient. It comes in its own time, on its own terms, in whatever shape or form it chooses, and whether you accept it or reject it is entirely up to you."

Elijah fell silent for a time, and Ian saw that he had finally fallen asleep. He removed the boy's shoes and drew a blanket over him, then bent close and dropped a kiss on the pale forehead.

"Good luck, m' boy." he whispered softly.

~~~~~

He was pretty good at waiting, but this was the hardest he had ever done. Elijah stared at the round doorway of the Bag End set, his shoulders aching with tension, apprehension a leaden meal in the pit of his belly. He should have talked to Sean, shouldn't have hidden away at Ian's like a scared little boy. But after the finality, the pain of his rejecting Sean, he didn't know what, if anything, he could say. Then there were the dreams. Different dreams, but no less terrifying. Sam looking at him with hate in his eyes; Sam pushing him away as if he couldn't bear his touch. Sam turning away from him - forsaking his promise - leaving him. He'd woken up on Ian's couch drenched in sweat, a scream caught painfully in his throat. In the heat of his emotion, he'd forgotten about the movie - forgotten that Sean was also Sam - that he was Frodo too - and he hoped to god that the dreams were his alone.

Sean had been so silent during make-up, had spent his time staring out the window at the New Zealand dawn. He had disappeared into his trailer right after they were done. They hadn't talked, and Elijah didn't know what to expect - except the worst.

He heard voices outside the set. Bill's and Dom's, and...Sean's. Ian patted his shoulder reassuringly and moved back to talk to Peter. He stared at the empty doorway until his eyes burned - and then Sean filled it, and Elijah felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Sean smiled and held out his arms.

"Frodo." he said, his smile open and genuine, completely in character.

"Sam," Elijah gulped, and moved gratefully into his embrace. The feel of the familiar arms around him made his heart ache. The warmth was there, but the sense of safety was missing. They had no choices - this was how it had to be. Behind him, he heard Ian sigh.

~~~~~

Sean stood at the kitchen window, gazing out at the quiet night. Around him, the house muttered, its wooden complaint a creaking counterpoint to the beating of his heart. It had been a frenetically busy six weeks, during which they had finally moved out of the hotel and into houses and apartments of their own. The filming had picked up pace, and he sometimes felt that he had dragged his tired body all over the length and breadth of New Zealand by his fingernails. Such a beautiful country, he mused, warming his hands on the mug of hot milk he held.

Life in Middle-Earth went on, much the way it always had. The fellowship was now a reality - friendships given a whole new dimension by the soul-bond some of them shared. That warming glow spilled over - onto the rest of the cast, and through the crew. They were a family. And Peter's vaunted luck was holding.

Some things were different. Orlando went about with an air of complete crogglement, and the helpless grins he and Viggo exchanged when their eyes met afforded the junior hobbits much amusement. Bill and Dom spent most of their time together now. There was an ease, a quiet communication between them that hadn't been evident before. Dom's acerbic wit seemed gentler now, kinder, tempered perhaps by the merry Scot, and he really was all the better for it.

The dreams hadn't returned, and Dr. Dowling had brushed off Sean's heartfelt thanks. "Think nothing of it. I was very glad to help," he said smilingly. "It was an incredible experience for me, you know. And Sean," he added, his eyes intent. "If you need to talk further, you know where to find me." Thank you, doctor, he thought, but I'm managing very well, all right?

A couple of days after the hypnosis session, Ian had come up to him to inquire gently as to his well-being. He didn't volunteer any information about his conversation with Elijah, and Sean didn't ask - he did ask another question, though; one that he had distracted himself with during those painful days.

"Viggo and Dom have been there before you," Ian had replied. "And I am giving you the answer I gave them: yes, I had the dream too, and no, I am not going to do anything about it."

"When?" Sean had countered. "And why not?"

"That night at my house, with all of you drugged to the eyebrows. As to why not - understand me, Sean - I am old - and while I believe that you and the others did have a past-life experience, the knowledge does not change anything for me." He had fallen silent for a moment, his eyes introspective. "There was nothing terrifying in my dream, Sean," he had added gently. "Only a sense of purpose, and joy. And a great fulfillment. I will leave it at that."

Sean leaned tiredly against the windowsill. He had to get some sleep, but the coiled tension in his body and mind fought him. At last he gave in - the effort of not-thinking was too great to support, and the repression made his head ache - kept him from his rest. His mind turned at last to the memories he avoided:

Elijah.

Instinctively, his mind reached out for the familiar aura, but this time it met only emptiness. The object of his search was no longer a few doors down a hall, but halfway across a city. Too far to reach, too far to touch, and the intensity of the grief that gripped his chest alarmed him. It brought him back to the day Elijah left - when his world had turned askew, and he had found refuge in Sam Gamgee. Sam was free to love Frodo, and so he did. As for Sean - he had put his sensitivity to good use - albeit in reverse. Now, where Elijah was, he took care not to be. Elijah had accepted the necessity of it. He had been lost at first, had seemed somehow incomplete, but the fellowship had rallied around him, around them both, and the awkwardness had eased. Elijah was back to his old self now, surfing with Billy and Dom, shopping with Orli. And Sean, well...

He washed his mug, put it away, and groped his way back to his bed. He slid under the covers, taking good care not to disturb the precious little body beside him. On the other side of Ally, Christine stirred in her sleep. His family, he thought. It would work, he told himself determinedly. He was nothing if not strong-willed. He would find passion in his marriage again - be a husband to Chris and a father to Ally.

If only he could sleep....

  
~~~~~

Sean stared at the words on the board desperately - as if his will alone could rearrange them into something less than threatening.

Set: Shelob's Lair... Scene: Shelob.

A tiny seed of panic took root and grew, branching throughout his body, spreading a thin sheen of sweat over his skin. The words stubbornly remained unchanged. He tore his eyes away, and they met blue fire from across the room. Elijah held his gaze defiantly and lifted his coffee cup in a little salute; then he looked away, back into the depths of the mirror, and his teeth closed over his lip painfully.

Most of the morning had been taken up with script meetings and a break for lunch, which now lay uneasily in his belly. He sat in his corner, the Book propped on his knee, waiting for the crew to signal their readiness. His eyes moved half-heartedly over the page; suddenly he stiffened, and his gaze sharpened:

_'Then he charged. No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts, where some desperate small creature armed with little teeth alone, will spring upon a tower of horn and hide that stands above its... fallen...mate.'_

He snapped the Book shut and buried his face in his hands. The thrill the words gave him scared the fuck out of him. His mate…his Frodo. He took a deep breath, fighting for a semblance of calm, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, a warmth grew. It acquired a shifting golden center and an aura of clear blue, fuzzy around the edges, and his breath caught in recognition.

“Sean?” Elijah’s voice had a worried edge to it. “Are you okay?”

Sean dropped his hands and looked up. “Yeah. Just a headache, Lij. Nothing to worry about.”

“They’re calling us. It’s time, Sean.”

~~~~~

His head swam dizzily, overcome by the venomous fumes. Frodo's face filled his vision...ashen and silent. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he struggled to his feet, his mind full of only one purpose - to place himself between his beloved master and the unholy abomination that had hurt him. The bowed legs tensed, poised to spring - and a voice seemed to come to him from afar. _Sean. Galadriel's gift, Sean - use it!_ He fumbled in his shirt and his hand closed around the Lady's glass - and he thrust it forward, screaming at the top of his voice. Shelob shrieked as the elven light burned her, and reared up over them - and Sam brought Sting up in a slashing arc and hewed with all the strength he possessed. The stroke sheared through a ghastly leg, and She pulled back in pain, retreating, moving still with terrible speed. Sam pursued her until at last he could go no further - then he whirled and ran swiftly back to his master.

The panting gaffer gaped after him and then looked up in amazement at the tip of the tall pole he held. A tattered remnant of string fluttered forlornly from it. Shelob was gone. He looked to Peter for instruction, but the director's eyes were fixed on the tableau before him.

Sam's heart twisted in despair. His master was so still...so pale. No breath passed the parted lips, no heartbeat stirred the breast beneath his hand. He lifted Frodo into his arms and touched the cold cheek ...

_He lifted Ned into his arms as the fire..._

_He lifted Elijah into his arms..._

For a brief moment his mind stuttered in confusion, then the veil lifted and reason rushed back in a flood. A light dawned, clear and merciless. He had found his soul's mate, only to lose him. Again. And he could not bear it.

~~~~~

Elijah felt the strong arms lift his head and shoulders off the ground, felt them tighten convulsively. He waited for Sean to say his lines, but heard only silence. Instead he felt a fleeting caress; wetness fell on his face and ran into the corner of his mouth - salty and bitter. It took all of his self-control to remain limp; then he felt himself lowered gently to the ground and heard Peter yell, "Cut! Sean - what the hell are you doing? Sean!"

His eyes shot open and he caught a glimpse of Sean's face before he turned and ran. "No!" he shouted, as Peter made to go after his errant actor. He scrambled to his feet, and threw a warning at Peter over his shoulder, "I'll go - "

The side door of the sound stage opened onto an empty lot between the two buildings. Elijah burst out the door and looked around frantically. Sean sagged against the wall a few yards away, his hands clenched into fists. Elijah could see his body shudder, could hear him gasp for breath.

Sean raised his head, and Elijah's voice died in his throat. Dark wells of pain stared into shocked blue for a long moment, then Sean closed his eyes and turned his head away. Elijah's hand went out towards him involuntarily, then he spun on his heel and ran back to the set. "Sean's ill, " he told Peter, grabbing a bottle of water from a table. "I'm taking him home."

~~~~~

Elijah toweled his hair dry and stared into his bathroom mirror. He'd thought his way carefully through this minefield - Sean's house was out of the question - even though Chris and Ally had gone back to L.A. He needed this to be on his territory, to be his responsibility. This was his decision, and he was fucked if he would allow Sean to shoulder all the guilt, and all the blame. He was going to give him what he wanted - what they both needed - and damn the consequences. He'd worry about that later. He turned off the light and ghosted along the dim hallway to the bedroom.

Sean stood at the open window, a towel in his hand, looking out into the gathering dusk. "Lij," he said quietly, unmoving, "Take me home. Please."

Elijah was startled. He'd thought he hadn't made a sound. "How'd you know I was here?" he asked curiously, ignoring the plea.

Sean turned his head then, and there were shadows in his eyes. "I always know where you are, Lij," he said simply, and the words had all the force of a punch in the belly for Elijah. He closed his eyes for a moment as he absorbed them, and swallowed against a painful lump in his throat.

"Sean," he said haltingly. "Do you remember the book I gave you - all those lives ago? Philip Sidney - remember him, Sean?

_"'His heart in me keeps him and me in one  
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides,'"_

He moved closer until Sean was just an arm's length away.

_"'He loves my heart for once it was his own  
I cherish his because in me it bides...'"_

_"My true love hath my heart and I have his..."_ Sean finished slowly. "I remember."

"Do you remember too - how much we loved those verses? They were ours - for all the time we had."

"Why bring this up now, Lij?" Sean's voice turned rough and taut - hanging on to civility by a thread. "Don't fucking play games with me - I can feel where you are, but I can't read your mind!" He turned away from the window abruptly and moved jerkily toward the door, averting his eyes from the rumpled bed. The expression on Elijah's face the night he left, the distaste, the rejection - the fear - replayed itself in his memory, and he checked himself for a moment, screwing his eyes shut. Oh god, how it hurt. It was useless - all of it. Ashes on the wind.

"Sorry," he muttered. "That was uncalled-for. Forgive me."

"It's okay, Seanie." Elijah moved to stand between him and the door. "I probably deserved that - although - no, I wasn't playing games." He went silent for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. "Do you know how fucking weird it felt when I realized that I was jealous of myself? 'Cause that's what it came to, Sean. Ned was me, and I was Ned - the same, and different. And I thought - you know, it didn't matter which of us you loved, because we were all one anyway, weren't we? One soul."

Sean raised his eyes, and Elijah watched in fascination as they shifted color in the lamplight - from muddy brown to gold-flecked hazel and then to softest green. The tip of a pink tongue crept out to wet dry lips, and he felt a blossom of heat flower low in his belly. _Down, Elijah. Go slow - _ he cautioned himself. _You hurt him badly. You've got one chance to fix this - don't mess up. Don't. _

He took a trembling breath and mustered his courage. "Sean - if it's Ned you want, I can be him for you." he whispered. From fading memories he plucked a moment, and he reached for Sean's hand and brought it to his lips.

"I love thee, Sean. An you want me, I am thine."

The archaic words had the force of a geas. The weight of the past pressed down on them and they struggled for breath. The very air seemed to thicken as the soft gleam of candlelight washed the dimness of the room. Then the eerie feeling faded and Sean bit back a strangled sob. "I loved Ned," he whispered shakily. "But here and now, it's you I love. So much. Are you sure, Lijah? You're so young..."

"I'm four hundred and thirty years old, Seanie. At least. I looked it up," Elijah said with the ghost of a smile. "How much older do I have to be?"

He lifted his face in open invitation and closed his eyes, waiting. Sean's fingers tightened in his grip and he felt moist air bathe his eyelids. Warm lips touched his mouth, feather-light nibbles, exploring the curve of his upper lip and moving down to tease the lower into tender fullness. No tongues then, not yet - and he didn't mind at all. Sean kissed him slowly, his lips moving gently, cocooning him in a haze of sensation; everything he felt was centered on his mouth and the warmth that spread from there to _there_. And _there_ responded eagerly. His knees went weak and he swayed forward. His arousal brushed the distended cloth of Sean's jeans and he whimpered deep in his throat at the jolt of pure pleasure that shot through his groin. He arched his pelvis, frantically seeking more, and he felt a trembling hand stroke the small of his back under his shirt, gentling him, and another splayed hot against his belly, keeping him still.

He pushed upward into the touch, and Sean's lips left his - to trail wet kisses along the tense line of his jaw and down the tendons of his neck. Fingers slipped below the waistband of his sweats to graze the sensitive tip of his swollen cock and gather the wetness there, and Elijah opened his eyes wide at the tumult of sensation the touch let loose. Never in his most erotic dreams had he ever imagined Sean to be this sensual, this... carnal.

"Sean... oh god.... Sean!"

"Hush, baby... hush..." and Sean raised his finger to his lips and licked delicately at the bead of come that crowned it.

That did it for Elijah. He buried his fingers in damp, curly hair and crushed his mouth against those teasing lips. The salty/bitter taste of his own semen heightened the burn of his arousal and he thrust his tongue rudely into Sean's mouth, courtesy thrown to the four winds, gentleness be damned. The intrusion was returned with interest, and he felt strong hands push his pants down and knead the bare flesh of his ass, grinding his tender cock against rough denim. He jerked back from the rasp of pleasure/pain, and fumbled at the buttons of Sean's jeans, cursing.

"Fuck... that hurt. Clothes... please... " Sean complied eagerly, and they clung to each other as they rid themselves of the encumbering clothing - their hands roaming everywhere, more hindrance than help.

"Bed... "

"Yes...oh fuck... yes..."

He sprawled on his back on the unmade bed and held his breath as he watched Sean undo the last button, allowing the shirt to fall free. His eyes widened as they wandered down the muscled arms, the broad chest, and focused on the proud cock, thick and hard. The little eye winked at him, light glancing off milky wetness, and his eyelids shivered shut at the wash of pure lust that eddied through his body. He felt Sean settle atop him, warm and heavy, his hot hardness snug in the crease between Elijah's thighs - and he parted them to receive him, and closed them again, tight and slick around Sean, trapping him.

"Lij.... oh jesus..." and Sean bucked forward reflexively, his cock sliding under Elijah's balls and nudging the sensitive flesh behind them, hard. Elijah felt the prickling heat begin, somewhere in his toes, rushing up to his groin with terrifying speed - and he tensed, his fingers digging into Sean's shoulders, willing the wave to subside.

"Nononono...not yet! Sean - Sean... fuck me, Sean! Fuck me now!

"Lijaaah..."

"Yes! Damn it! You remember how it goes - do it!" He reached blindly for the night table and his trembling fingers closed on a small bottle. He thrust it at Sean, drawing a sobbing breath as another paroxysm threatened. "Use this - massage oil for my shoulder. Please, Sean!"

Sean took the bottle and rolled off to the side. Elijah turned with him as if magnetized, throwing a leg over his hips and pressing closer. Sean curved his hand around the pale neck, pressing lightly, "Lij - I remember, yes; I remember how much I hurt you, that first time." He paused, shuddering, "We'll do this right - or not at all. Trust me, okay?"

A deep, open-mouthed kiss was all the answer he received. He savored it for a sweet moment, then drew back to dribble oil into his palm and slick himself, groaning his pleasure into Elijah's mouth. Then he insinuated a finger into him, softening the tight muscle, opening him up gently.

Elijah watched him, his teeth clamped hard on his lower lip. "Now, Seanie?" he asked eagerly, sounding for all the world like a little boy, and Sean faltered as he bent the limber legs back and positioned himself. He shut his eyes for a moment, pushing back the guilt, and then opened them and smiled into the heavy-lidded blue eyes.

"Yes, Lij.... now," and he pushed in slowly, slowly, watching the face on the pillow tighten in pain. Elijah's head went back, his hands twisting the sheets, and he moaned, long and slow. Sean couldn't believe the tightness, the heat of him clenched around his aching cock, and his groan merged with Elijah's voice in a skein of sound. He watched the blue eyes roll up under trembling lids and then close in an expression of utter bliss. Oh lord - I love him so, he thought.

A brief stab was all the pain Elijah felt as his body accepted Sean. Their bodies knew each other, fit so well, and as Sean moved inside him, filling him with fire, he felt the ripples of orgasm begin again. And he welcomed it. Wanted it with every atom of his being.

"Sean... oh - oh god..."

"Together, Lij... "

As the waves of pleasure crashed through him, Elijah sensed Sean for the first time, a green-gold presence in his mind, warm and loving; and his soul sang in recognition as they crested the wave, deeply in rapport - always together, always one.

~~~~~

Elijah lay quietly, his eyes closed, listening to the blood pound in his ears. Trying to hold on to the fading traces of the most perfect moment of joy that he had ever felt. Trying not to think of how long they had, and how far they'd gone. Loving the exquisite heat of Sean's body, molded perfectly to his own.

"I'm sorry, Lijah!" His eyes shot open at the sound of Sean's voice. He hadn't thought of how his silence could be taken, how new all this was - how frightening it must be for Sean.

"Are you, Sean? Are you sorry?" Elijah whispered.

Silence. Sean splayed his hand against Elijah's belly and stared at it, a perfect composition of warm brown against skin the hue of ivory.

"No." His voice was rough. "No - not sorry - not a bit. It was wonderful, you were wonderful, and I want to do it again. And again and again, with nobody but you. Forever. I love you, Elijah."

Elijah's eyes widened in shock. "Sean - that sounds almost like a proposal!" he blurted and then brought his hand up to his mouth in dismay.

Sean looked at him and smiled, a suspicious brightness in his eyes. "No, my Elijah, not a proposal - a promise."

"And Samwise always keeps his promises." The facile rejoinder slipped out and Elijah cursed his ready tongue viciously. His agile mind had already leaped ahead - heard the subtle mockery in the innocent phrase. This relationship thing was hard to get a handle on - when emotions were raw and careless words could drive a shaft of pain through a lover's heart.

Sean's face froze and he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Elijah lunged after him, clinging to his broad back, his body pressed tight against the warmth of Sean's skin.

"No! Seanie - I'm sorry! I didn't mean it that way! Oh God...Sean..."

"Elijah, Samwise Gamgee is the most excellent of hobbits," Sean's lips had a bitter twist to them. "But I'm not him, Lij - just a poor, pale imitation. I do break promises, and the biggest of them all is the one I made to Chris. She'll have to know - I can't live a lie, you see." He hooked an arm around Elijah's waist and swung him across his lap, burying his face in the warmth of his neck. Elijah closed his eyes, his chest aching with the shared pain, and he slipped his arms around Sean and stroked his back, trying to soothe the agony away.

Sean raised his head and looked deep into bottomless pools of blue. "Lij, there are promises I will keep. To take care of my family for as long as they need me - and if you'll trust me, to be yours for as long as you want me. Will you? Trust me, I mean."

Elijah smiled and drew his head down for a lingering kiss. "Only if you'll let me promise the same to you, Seanie. Maybe a promise shared is easier to keep - we'll find out, won't we?"

Together.

~~~~~

The Gods are pleased.

The debt is paid.

On seven plinths, the pages turn. An old Soul, its aura burnished gold, prepares to meet its maker. Allah, Jehovah - the Christian God, they are all _one_ to the hall.

About three Books, a silver radiance gleams; around another, a crimson aureole shines. A halo of soft emerald surrounds one Soul, its verdance shot through with streaks of blue.

And the youngest of the Seven floats in a nimbus of deepest sapphire, the rarest hue. Such Souls are made for Love.

In the Hall of Akashic Records, a host of Souls moves through the mists of history. Do these Souls sleep - is life a dream? The Hall keeps silence.

For the fortunate few, happiness... is just a life away.

 

Finis


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